


Two out of Three

by The Manwell (Manniness)



Series: Two out of Three [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Fake Marriage, M/M, Mission Fic, POV First Person, Same-Sex Marriage, Shounen-ai, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 12:32:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 183,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/The%20Manwell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, life went on for everyone except the five Gundam pilots. Deemed a danger to society, they bought their lives but not their freedom. Duo has a plan to change that and while marriage is part of the plan, falling in love is not.  Canon-compliant through the series, Endless Waltz has not happened... yet.</p><p>Notes: Duo POV (I've been heavily influenced by Sunhawk's Ion Arc and Avarice's Appearances Series.)</p><p>Notes II: Chapter titles and subheadings are from the album, Infinity on High, by Fall Out Boy.</p><p>Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, the Gundams, the copyrights, or the patents. But the snappy one-liners are mine, all mine (unless indicated otherwise).</p><p>Theme Music: Infinity on High by Fall Out Boy (just everything on that album... yeah)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Long Live the Car Crash Hearts

# Chapter 1: Long Live the Car Crash Hearts

_Sometimes we take chances, sometimes we take pills…_

 

“Good morning, Mr. Maxwell.”

“Hey, Bret,” I said, flashing a grin at the security guard manning the lobby reception station.  “Get any bites last weekend?”

“Nah,” the middle-aged man replied.  “Caught a couple of monster logs, though.”

I barked out a laugh even as my fingers twitched mindlessly towards the noose around my neck.  I freakin’ _hated_ neckties and starched, buttoned collars.  You’d think, after all this time, that I’d have gotten used to ‘em, though.  “You and your fishing stories, man,” I teased Bret, the only guy in this whole building with a Taser _and_ a sense of humor.  “I’m pretty sure you’re pullin’ my leg.”

He grinned.

“I’m gonna wanna see photos of those _monster_ logs, pal.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he promised and I sauntered my way over to the elevators.  I didn’t have to wait for the lift what with the lobby being deserted; I was late again and screw you to anybody who decided to call me on it.  I had nuthin’ but time and, really, what were they gonna do to me?  Write me up?  Cut my weekly allowance?  _Fire_ me?

Christ.  I wish.

The elevator announced itself with a serene _ping!_ and I stepped in, punched the button for my floor, and waved goodbye to Bret Anders.  The instant the doors closed, my grin evaporated.  Hell, I didn’t just frown, I freakin’ _scowled_ at the shiny metal doors.

Elevators didn’t use to put me in a pisser of a mood.  Given my experience with them over the last four years, though, it was kinda inevitable that I’d come to despise the fuckers.   I watched the light blink through the floors: First Floor – reception, motor pool and various escape opportunities that remained elusive; Second Floor – supplies storage and evil security bastards; Third Floor – the IT and network overlords; Fourth Floor – R&D (I was pretty sure they sat around playing with Lincoln Logs and Legos in there); Fifth Floor – Sales and Marketing (oh, how I envied them the tether to the outside world their jobs provided)…  I could only imagine what life must be like on those other floors.  My pass card only let me through a total of six doors in all the universe, one of which was coming right up: Winner Enterprises Incorporated, eighth floor and home to the Administration Department of soul sucking, everlasting doom.

I took a deep breath to settle the upsurge of disgust churning in my gut, pasted a puke-worthy chipper smile on my face, and forced myself to leave the elevator when the doors whispered open.  Sure, I was tempted to ride it back down to the lobby and smile and wave at Bret again… and again… and again, but security had kinda disapproved when I’d spent the better part of a morning doing just that a couple months after I’d been sucked into the paper-pushing assembly line that is Winner Enterprises.  After that, the IT nerds had tweaked the pass card system and now I was only allowed up the elevator once in the morning and down once in the evening.  Jesus.  Where the hell did they stash the Sense of Humor Department, I’d like to know!

Stretching the legs of my sudden mischievous mood, I meandered over to a seemingly random cubicle, grinning.  The grin was necessary.  If I didn’t grin, I figured I’d start flinging vid phones across the meticulously regimented office space… for the second time in the past six months.  Vid phones were expensive, I’d been told.  My grin stretched a bit more at the thought.

“Maxwell, you’re late.”

I paused and leaned over the edge of the cubicle on my right.  I grinned cockily down at the man scowling at his computer screen.  “Aw, you noticed!”

Wufei glared up at me.  It was a sad, sad commentary on my life that irritating him in passing was probably going to be the highlight of my day.  “Get to work.”

 _Make me,_ I almost said, but I didn’t really feel up to another wrestling match with the humorless security shitheads.  Maybe after lunch.

“I _am_ working,” I told him, then proceeded to give him a thorough once over as if he were Heero’s old Gundam, Wing, and I was planning to dissect him for parts.

Wufei growled, “I am not one of your charity cases.”

I snickered.  “Wake up and smell the incarceration, Chang.  We’re _all_ charity cases.”

He looked up and I winked just because I knew it would piss him off.  I sauntered onward before he could snarl a comeback.

I took the scenic route to my desk, banging my knuckles on the maintenance room door as I passed, shaking my ass and doing a little dance in my polished “regulation” dress shoes… which I _loathed_ with every beat of my heart.

The door opened and I smirked at the janitor.  From the depths of the little clutter closet, I could hear water dripping into what sounded like a full bucket.  Or maybe I was just imagining it: a drop of Duo sarcasm in the enormous ocean of no fucking hope whatsoever.  “Yo, Tro.  I made a rhyme.”

He blinked at me.  Once.

I grinned wider.

“Oh, was that it?” he deadpanned.

I barked out a laugh.  “Are you hip deep already in another glorious day of shit-shoveling?”

“I’m not the one who works in PR,” he retorted softly, the one green eye I could see around his fall of hair sparkling with momentary mirth.

“What’s that stand for anyway?” I mused, leaning against the wall as if I had no place better to be.  Which, in my opinion, was precisely the case.  “Propaganda rehearsal?”

“You’d know,” he challenged instead of ordering me to get to work like others who shall remain nameless.

“Actually, my vote’s on ‘plastic rhinestones,’” I confided after showily glancing up and down the walkway.  Of course everyone could hear every freakin’ word I said; they were sitting just an arm’s length away in their spiffy little grey cubicles.

“Pretty ridiculous,” he muttered.

“Positively rank,” I agreed.

He snorted softly and then reached for the mop and bucket cart.  “Please retreat,” he continued, wheeling the thing out through the open doorway.

“Ooh, you and your sexy mop.  I have envy,” I drawled.

“You should.  It’s all wood.”  With that, the corner of his mouth quirked up and he squeaky-wheeled away to get started on the break room floor.

I stared after him for a moment, a laugh caught in my chest.  Whoa.  A sexual innuendo from the Tro-bot.  Who’dathunk it?  Not me, anyway.  Never in a million years.

The day was lookin’ up – I hadn’t actually been forced to sit down at my desk yet or even check the company’s electronic mail inbox – so, of course, the mood was bound to crash and crash hard.  I tried not to look, I really did, but it was like a train wreck.  Utterly, stomach-rollingly mesmerizing.

As I passed by the open doorway to the CEO’s office, I glanced up.  Behind the huge desk, Quatre had his elbows braced on the ink blotter, his hands in his hair.  A massive report appeared to be laid out before him, but I don’t think he was reading it.  More like _drowning_ in it.  I didn’t have to wait for him to look up to know that there were dark shadows under his bloodshot eyes.  Yes, I was spared that delightful view, but skewered by another.

“What are you doing over here?”

My feet stopped moving as I gave Quatre’s personal assistant a once-over.  “Just sayin’ hi,” I muttered lamely.  You’d think that saving the Earth from massive chunks of plummeting space debris would have won him some bonus points with the War Tribunal.  Yeah, well, if you did, you’d be wrong.  He was here just like the rest of us, serving our sentence.

Heero stared at me.  There wasn’t any heat of irritation in his gaze like with Wufei’s, nor was there a sparkle of camaraderie like from Trowa’s.  There was… nothing.

I nearly puked right there on the threshold of Quatre’s office.

“Get to work.”

“Or what?  You’re gonna get the trolls in HR to write me up?”

Heero sighed and repeated woodenly, “Get to work, Duo.”  It wasn’t an order.  That, at least, would have been _something._  No, it was resignation.  Pure resignation.  Heero Yuy had given up.

Shit.

“Heero…” I began, not really sure what I could say to bring a spark of life back into him, not really sure that _anything_ could save him from that _nothingness._

“Just shut up, Duo.”  He pointedly turned back to his computer.  “We did this,” he reminded me.

I didn’t hang around for a second pearl of wisdom.  It was bad enough I’d had the first foisted on me.  Sails windless and parade rained-out, I scuffed my way over to my cubicle.  I ignored the glare from my supervisor and plunked my ass down in my chair.

I hated my life.

No, wait up; I hated life.  Period.

I tried hard not to blame Quatre.  He’d done his best, after all.  Mostly, I blamed the self-righteous bastards who sat their fat, pompous asses in the War Tribunal’s plush, lumbar-support chairs.  I didn’t have a plush chair and lumbar-support was a joke and a half around here.  I was just lucky I didn’t have any springs poking me in the ass.  But, then again, all my springs were metaphorical.

Sighing loudly and in great length, I turned on my computer and tried not to look at the number of messages awaiting my perusal.

257.

Fuck.  Y’know, it’s hard to lead a meaningful life when your biggest daily contribution is clicking a frickin’ mouse button.

That morning – or, what was left of it anyway – I was pretty much on autopilot.  (Speaking of which, God… _piloting!_   What I felt at the thought wasn’t so much an ache as an agony.  Like watching your own leg getting sawed off without the use of anesthetics.)   I clicked through the endless and infinite inbox, forwarding legitimate requests for charitable donations off to Legal Affairs for background checks.  Sometimes I had my chin in my hand and sometimes I’d squeakily lean back in my chair, put my feet up on the desk and continue my clickity-clicks.  I was pretty sure I looked like I was half asleep, so when I scanned email number eighty-three and blinked a couple of times, whoever might have been watching probably figured I was fighting drowsiness.

I wasn’t.  I was suppressing a shout of pure glee.

I scanned the email and did my damnedest to keep the grin off my face despite how badly it tickled.  The code words jumped out at me and I knew he’d finally done it.  My ol’ buddy Howard had found me – _us_ – a golden opportunity.  It’d only taken him nigh on four years to do it.

When I spotted Trowa heading down the cubicle aisle with his trash cart, I grabbed the scrap of paper I’d been doodling on, wadded it up, spun around in my chair and freehanded it into the passing bin.

“Nice shot,” Trowa commented.

“One in a million,” I replied.

I sensed his gaze – probably a brief glance through that fall of hair – but he didn’t slow down and I didn’t watch him continue at funeral procession pace.

I did, however, entertain myself imagining it.  In addition to mop envy, I apparently also had a burgeoning case of khaki pants envy.  I also had a hell of an idea that I could _not_ wait to share.

I kept those thoughts to myself.  Instead, I wondered if I could rig a mouse pad on the floor and click with my toes without my eyes-of-a-hawk boss catching on.  I filed that away for later and focused on not looking too hopeful and perky, at least not until it was almost quitting time.  It wouldn’t do to arouse suspicion.

I suffered until lunch break.  I agonized until coffee time.  I practically writhed in my stupid squeaky chair until the big 5-double-oh of quitting time.  Despite the pain of keeping the news to myself, it had the lovely side-effect of forcing me to refine my plans, boiling them down until I took myself up to the roof of the neighboring condo building with two words for companions.

Yeah, they were just two words, but I was pretty sure they were about to change my life.  Hell, they were gonna change the lives of all five of us, not that I expected to get any thanks for it.  Quatre had never seemed to chafe under the weight he bore.  In fact, he seemed to relish it in a perverse way.  Wufei had taken a bit longer to be cowed, but eventually his sense of justice had bruised and bloodied his spirit until it had slunk off to lick its wounds in another postal code.  When he’d finally snapped out of it, the fire in his eyes had been directed at himself and I’d known he was lost; in order to move on, he’d had to blame himself.  I sometimes envied him that.  Hell, if I could find it in me to feel guilty, I might have been more… docile about this whole thing.  Still, I never expected that Heero would be next.  It seemed he’d taken the same weekend seminar as Wufei.

_“We did this.”_

I frowned at the memory.  God how I’d wanted to argue with him.  I still did, but my hopes weren’t very high that anything would come of it.  He was perfectly stubborn, the bastard.  No, I knew what – and _who_ – my best and only shot was now.  All I had to do was make contact, set out the bait, and reel him in.

I sat right where I was, letting the wind whip at me and the setting sun bake me to a nice golden brown as I waited.  And as I waited, I considered the phrase that had the potential to kick some serious ass.

Two words.  I probably wouldn’t have thought of them at all if Trowa hadn’t bragged about his wood today and gotten me thinking.  I thought about the spark of humor in his eyes and the lithe grace he still retained.  Maybe it was an acrobat thing.

With two words, I could find out.  If I dared.  But that was a no-brainer.  Of course I dared.  Even now, old, unused plans which had grown dusty and rusty from moldering in the back of my mind for so long were suddenly seeing the light of day thanks to Howard’s long-awaited, little message.  I grinned as I ran through the sequence of my mission again, looking for weaknesses and liabilities.  Hm, there was nothing there that a partner couldn’t handle, I was sure.

Hot damn.  I – _we –_ actually had a shot now.  Well, maybe.  It would all depend on the one guy I never figured I’d end up partnering.

He didn’t approach me from behind.  No, the damn show-off strolled over to me, walking silently along the raised ledge of the building’s roof.  He paused not eight inches from me and sat down in a fluid, confident motion.  Definitely an acrobat thing.

He mirrored my pose, dangling his feet out over the abyss between the office building across the driveway and the residential condo beneath our asses.  Each building was only a piddly eight stories tall, but this was the closest I could get to being airborne.  Well, without flinging myself over the edge.  How pathetic.

I didn’t comment on Trowa’s presence.  He was here, so he must’ve gotten the doodle-message I’d tossed into his scow of infinite holding.

“Heero’s given up,” I remarked as those two aforementioned words continued to chime in the back of my skull, ringing, ringing, ringing like bells.  I almost laughed aloud at that but this was not the moment for it.

Trowa nodded, either unsurprised or already having figured out Heero’s defection from our brotherhood of underdog rebels for himself.

 _It’s just you and me now,_ I didn’t comment.  Trowa would have just agreed with that, too.  Observations were useful little things but only up to a point.  Instead, I glanced at my wristwatch.  He was early; the evening news was just wrapping up.

“You’re missing the weather report,” I remarked.

Trowa shrugged.  “It’s not like either of us has much use for it.”

Too true.

“So, what’s new and exciting in the world?” I asked, working up to the offer I was planning on making him.  I’d skipped the evening news broadcast today.  I knew I shouldn’t have, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on it.  I guess the scent of freedom made me antsy.  Or something.

Trowa took a deep breath and said, “The L5 colony reconstruction started today.  They’re playing the speech again.”

The Speech.  I snorted softly.  “Say it with capital letters, man,” I retorted.  God, that fucking speech.  I wouldn’t have been able to stomach it, either.  Never mind that it had been the only thing that had kept our asses from being locked away in solitary confinement for the rest of our natural lives, I still couldn’t find even a grain of thankfulness in me.  Hell, most days, I wished our friend Relena, recently promoted to foreign minister, hadn’t butted the hell in when the War Tribunal had started seriously considering executing the five of us.  Oh, excuse me: not execution; it was _euthanasia_.  See, we’re all civilized now.

Whatever.

It was still one hell of a bitter fuckin’ shock to know that it had been Quatre who’d literally _bought_ us our futures… such as they were.  Shit, all I had to do was let myself recall that press conference and I’d hear Q’s voice again, soft with resignation but firm with conviction:

_“… there’s nothing any of us can do to change the past, but it is our duty to rebuild and contribute to the future of peace between the Earth and the colonies.  To that end, all five of us have chosen to dedicate our lives to righting whatever wrongs we can with the aid of the full range of resources which Winner Enterprises is capable of providing…”_

I’d stood back, head bowed with contrition as Quatre had offered up his family’s company – a previously privately owned mega-conglomerate – in exchange for our lives.  He’d promised to serve the peace by turning over all profits from WEI to the new United Government.  Now we worked until our brains atrophied so those politico bastards could have their comfy office chairs.  Oh, I guess some good has come of this: the colony in L5 that had self-destructed during the war was being rebuilt.  Mostly, though, I just hated my servitude.  None of us got a salary, a car, or a life.  We were stuck here on this compound for the rest of our pathetic lives.  Here, where we could be _useful_ instead of sucking up taxpayers’ money in some prison cell somewhere.  I almost wished I _were_ sitting on my ass in a concrete cell; I wished I could draw just a little bit of blood from the hypocritical bastards who’d condemned us all.  We’d fucking saved the Earth and the colonies and yet somehow that had made us all too dangerous to be allowed basic human rights and freedoms.  I’d always known that life wasn’t fair, but that really took the frickin’ cake.  Even now I felt like screaming.  Hell, I’d felt like screaming ever since Quatre had delivered The Speech.

“If I see that Goddamn thing one more time, I’ll put my fist through the vid screen,” I predicted darkly.

“Me first,” Trowa retorted flatly.

 _This can’t go on,_ I didn’t say.  I didn’t have to.  I said instead, “This won’t last forever.”  My tone was soft but final.  Certain.  It was the best I could do to let Trowa know that there really was a light at the end of this tunnel and I could see it.

Trowa shifted beside me and drew a wad of notebook paper out of his pocket.  I recognized it as the scrap on which I’d sketched a picture of the two of us, sitting here at sunset.

“Tell me,” he urged and I relaxed.  Yeah, he knew I had a plan.  During the war, Trowa’s plans had always been pretty good, hinging on his chameleon-like personality.  I’d never been sure where he actually stood until the shit hit the fan.  Only then would he risk sacrificing his cover for the success of the mission and the sake of the colonies.

He’d relied on blatant infiltration, sometimes under a false identity and sometimes as himself.  He’d always been a master at being the guy who was right in front of your nose but utterly invisible in his mundaneness.  Me?  I came in two flavors: undetectable and sleight-of-hand.  I figured our range of skills alone could make us a pretty good team.  And besides, him being a former acrobat and me being a former thief were lovely bonuses.  Ours was a match made in—er, well, not heaven exactly, but out of necessity.  Especially since we’d recently lost our last wingman.

The two words that had come to me earlier chimed at me again.  Grinning wryly, I glanced Trowa’s way, studying him, wondering if he’d go for it.  If not, I was pretty sure it’d take more than an arm wrestling match to convince him.  Still, I figured I had a good chance.  After all, Trowa had done a helluvalot for the sake of the mission before.  Well, I was pretty sure that sucking up to Une was significantly worse than what I was about to suggest.

Speaking of which, it was time for me to spit it out before Trowa started getting irritated with me for yanking his chain.

So I said those two words softly but very much aloud: “Spousal privilege.”

The wind puffed at his hair and I caught a glimpse of a speculative green gaze.  I wasn’t sure what surprised me more: that he wasn’t shocked or that he seemed to be seriously considering it.  “Are you proposing?” he murmured.

“Yup,” I returned brightly.  “Marry me and it’s all yours.”

“It?” he probed, turning to face me and I watched him study me from scalp to sole.

I grinned.  “C’mon, Tro.  I can’t just give it away.”

His mouth twitched as if he might actually smile.  “And I’m known for taking leaps of faith?”

“You _are_ the acrobat.”

“And you’re the thief.”

I didn’t deny it.  Instead, I said, “I still don’t lie.”  And that included marriage vows.

He didn’t remind me that he had no such compulsion.  I knew he could screw me six ways to Sunday.  I didn’t need a reminder of all the times during the war when he’d played his role for the enemy just a little _too_ convincingly. 

I gave him a toothy grin.  “It’ll work,” I promised.  Howard’s email had been totally confident and I knew the old man wouldn’t be so cruel as to give me false hope.  “Are you gonna turn me down?”

He studied me for a long moment.  I might have tried to sweeten the deal – yes, dammit, I needed him that damn badly in order for this to work – but the wind stirred again and I glimpsed a hungry shimmer in his eyes.  He wanted his freedom just as badly as I did.  I could see it.

Perhaps because I _had_ seen it, he didn’t try to deny it.  “When?”

“Soon,” I replied, deliberately thrumming my fingers against the ledge between us and tapping five times with my thumb.  Today was Tuesday.  I meant to have us hitched on Sunday, five days from now.

“Hm” was all he said.  “Are we going to keep this to ourselves?”

“We could,” I admitted.  “Public record should be enough…”  I shrugged.  I wasn’t about to ask the guy to come on to me at the office.  Not that I’d ever seen any indication that he had a limit when it came to his assignments during the war, but still…

Warm fingers brushed against mine.  I startled a bit, doing a double-take at the feel of his calluses.  I’d long since lost mine but it appeared that maintenance work had allowed Trowa to keep his.  Maybe that was why his spirit hadn’t been beaten like Heero’s had; Trowa still had physical evidence of what he used to be capable of.

“Duo,” he said firmly and the tone of his voice was another shock.  I looked up, my chin lifting automatically and I found myself nose-to-nose with him.  The wind stirred, revealing and concealing his eyes.  And then he leaned forward and kissed me.

It wasn’t my first kiss, not technically.  But, in a way, it was.  The last time I’d been kissed had been back on my home colony, back before I’d become Shinigami.  I’d been just a kid then and so had the girl.  But now… now I was a grown man and I was being kissed by another man.  I forced myself not to tense up, and when Trowa let his eyes drift closed, I followed suit.

The kiss consisted of just a gentle press of warm lips against mine.  A simple touch.  I could handle this, I soothed myself, struggling against the mortified flush I could feel slowly boiling me from within.  And then he moved, brushing his mouth against mine.  The friction sent my heart racing and I felt my mouth open either in helpless reaction or burgeoning protestation: I wasn’t sure which.  Suddenly, we were mingling our breaths together.  I leaned toward him, my mind huddling and quaking in its figurative boots somewhere in the asteroid belt.  I tried not to think about what I was doing – about what we were doing.  The _ohfuckohfuckohfuck_ was there, though, lurking in the back of my mind waiting for its turn to make an appearance.

And the kiss changed yet again.  Trowa nibbled insistently at my lips, but it wasn’t until he drew my lower lip into his mouth that the building heat rocketed southward and I gasped.  My eyes flew open at the feel of soft suction and then he slowly leaned back.

I braced myself for the delayed reaction I knew was coming.  I figured I had about two seconds before I started wigging out over kissing another man and maybe-sorta liking it.  In this day and age, same sex couples weren’t all that rare, I just never thought I’d enjoy… er, that is, I’d always assumed I’d prefer to kiss, y’know, _women._

Maybe I still did.

With that thought came blessed relief.  I was twenty years old, give or take, and I hadn’t kissed anyone since I was a kid, hadn’t been touched intimately at all in my short life.  Funny how revenge, mobile suit training, fighting a war, and then serving a glorified prison sentence got in the way of shit like that.  So this… this whatever I was feeling was just a hormonal response to interacting with another warm body.  It didn’t mean anything deep and profound.  So what if Trowa had turned me on.  Shit, I’d probably have the same reaction to being touched by anyone I trusted.  I couldn’t help it.

Somewhat calm again, I let my lashes flutter open.  It was time to face the music.

Trowa’s eyes, when I could see them thanks to the breeze, were dark and heavy-lidded.  Beneath my hand, which was fisted in the front of his shirt (although I couldn’t tell you when I’d done that), his heart was beating steadily.  He gazed back at me, panting a bit as he stared at my mouth.

Shit.

I guess I wasn’t the only one having a hormonal moment.

It didn’t even occur to me that I ought to flinch when he reached forward and pressed a knuckle against the underside of my chin, coaxing me to close my still-gaping mouth.   I was tempted to give myself a shake but no.  No, if we were going to pull this off, it had to look genuine.

I felt myself start to blush and I went with it.  Fuck it.  If anyone had eyes on us, it would only make the kiss look like the real deal.  The thought of the security dicks watching us jolted me back to the here and now.  My fingers twitched and I realized I was still clutching his shirt.  I felt nervous and jittery, but I deliberately did not jerk my hand away.  I released the fabric and, before I could decide what to do with myself next, Trowa’s other hand came up and he pressed my palm against his chest.

He was still cradling my chin so I didn’t jump out of my skin when he feathered his thumb over my lower lip.  It was a near thing, though.  It kinda rankled that he had no problem with this pretense and I was all but freaking out.  Shit.  Again.

But I guess I’d passed the test; his mouth twitched into a satisfied smile.  “Yes,” he told me and, God help me, I couldn’t even remember what the original question had been. 

“Yes?” I squeaked.

He leaned forward until his mouth was beside my ear.  “I’ll marry you.”

Well, fuck.

I should have been thrilled – this was what I’d been going for after all – but I just felt… stupefied.  And yeah, there was a good sprinkling of panic thrown in.  I strangled it back down and forcibly molded it into anticipation.  I had a partner now.  Trowa had my back and I had his.  My plan was going to work.

“You won’t regret it,” I promised and he shivered.  I felt it against my palm which he still held firmly to his solid chest.

He made no move to pull away so I raised my free hand and slid my fingers into his hair, holding him.  The wind swirled around us, but I could feel his warm breaths against my cheek.

Holy shit, what was I getting us into?

 _Freedom,_ I reminded myself and that grounded me.  I could play house with Trowa in order to see this through.  There were five lives – five futures – riding on this crap shoot.  It was time to get serious.

I turned toward Trowa’s ear and nuzzled it.  I was a little surprised by how nice he smelled, like soap and warm, smooth skin.  Like strength and patience.  If those things could be a smell at all.  “You can waylay me tomorrow when I stop by to say hi,” I rasped.

“My pleasure,” he just about purred, his fingers stirring over my hand, and I had to wonder at his acting abilities.  The man deserved a freakin’ Oscar.

“I’m sure,” I drawled.  Taking a deep breath, I leaned away and he let me go.  Well, mostly.  He dropped his hand from my chin and released mine from where it was still pressed against his chest but his fingers caught mine upon the bit of ledge between our thighs.  I found it oddly comforting that he didn’t trap my hand.  Instead, my hand rested atop his.

Yeah, I’d made a good choice with Trowa.  Wufei never would have gone along with my plan; he’d probably accuse me of trying to cheat justice.  Quatre honestly believed we deserved to be treated like white collar slaves.  Heero might have agreed to the act before he’d resigned himself to his fate, but he would have insisted on micromanaging the entire mission.  With Trowa, I didn’t have to worry about any of that.  He still had his spirit, still craved freedom, and he was willing to follow my lead to get it.  He might end up making a patsy outta me like he had when he’d infiltrated OZ, but, by God, he would not deny me my role in this.  Somehow, I just _knew_ it.

Yes, God dammit, this was going to work!

I gave Trowa a grin which, to my unending shock, he reciprocated.  Damn, I don’t think I’d ever seen the man produce an honest-to-goodness smile in the five years I’d known him.  I didn’t really know what to make of it.

“C’mon,” I said, swinging my legs over the ledge and standing up on the roof of the building.  “I’ll walk you down to your place.  It’s gettin’ cold.”

His lips twitched into a playful smile as he stood.  He didn’t try to pull his hand from mine and I couldn’t bring myself to release it.  It would be awkward as hell if I did.

“I’m pretty sure I can find my front door by myself,” he teased.

“Yeah,” I replied, “but lots of things are more fun with two.”

He gave me a sideways glance and damn if it wasn’t teasing.  “I’ll hold you to that.”

And boy did he.  Five minutes later, I found myself pressing him back against his still-locked front door, kissing him right there in plain view of any and everyone who might have been wandering in the hall.  It was deserted, but still!

I did the nibbling this time, the nudging and the nuzzling.  His rumbling sigh made me tingle in the base of my spine.  I decided that was OK.  I’d treat all these moments like they were a dream and dreams didn’t have to make sense.  I went with the flow.

So did Trowa.  His hands ghosted up the front of the black T-shirt I was wearing and l felt his fingers interlace at the nape of my neck.  His thumbs moved into my bound hair and massaged behind my ears.

I braced myself against the door with one hand and the other slid down his side to his hip.  He pulled away, leaned his head back against the door and looked at me through his lashes.  Trowa is significantly taller than me, broader in the shoulders, too, but I knew submission when I saw it.  It still shocked the hell outta me.

“Are you coming in?” he asked, his tone huskier than I’d ever heard it before.

I gently pulled against his hip, drawing him closer as I shook my head.  “No,” I whispered as he bent his head back toward me so I could press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.  “A good catholic boy like me would never…!” I teased.

Trowa gave me a skeptical look.  His right hand smoothed down over my chest until his fingers could pluck at the cross I still wore beneath my shirt.  “A _very_ good catholic boy,” he returned, his lips quirking into a smirk that made me want to retaliate.

Grinning wickedly, I slid my hand daringly into his back pocket.  He inhaled sharply, his hips shifting toward me, but I didn’t linger.  My fingers closed around my intended target and I mutely lifted Trowa’s pass card up for him to see.

He grunted.  “Tease.”

“You better believe it.”

He shoved good-naturedly at my shoulders before turning to press his palm to the scanner beside his door.  I stood behind him, not touching but I could still feel the heat rising off of him.  Damn.

Trowa glanced at me over his shoulder, his gaze intense, patient, and freakin’ predatory.  Swallowing, I slid his pass card through the reader.  The light blinked on and the door whispered open.  I slipped the card back into his pocket as he crossed the threshold, tugging playfully on the neck strap of the thing before releasing it.

He pivoted sharply, braced himself on upraised arms in the doorway, and stared at me.  “Do that again and I’ll assume you mean it,” he growled.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied, rising up on the balls of my feet to give him a fast, biting kiss.  “Good night, Trowa.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Duo.”  And it was a good thing I could trust Trowa with some degree of certainty because that sounded a helluvalot like a threat.

I didn’t sleep well.  But, hey, I figured that was pretty much a given.  I was still kinda freaked out that Trowa had kissed me in the first place.  Sure, maybe he’d been testing my resolve, pushing to see if I was really prepared for my own mission, giving me the chance to test drive the idea of being in a relationship with him before I fucked up and got us both killed.

I could rationalize that.  No problem.

What was keeping me from my beauty sleep was far more disturbing.  I kept wondering why I’d come on to _him_ at his door.  Fuck, the memory of it was making me tingle again and, with an exasperated huff, I crossed my arms above my head, stuffing my hands beneath my pillow to keep from adjusting things further south.  I was not going to jack off to thoughts of his surrender, his damned purr and freakin’ _smell_.

Not going to happen.

It might make my life easier if I just gave into it, yeah, but… dammit, I _couldn’t._   I was not the chameleon that Trowa was.  I could not afford to start lying to myself, convincing myself that I wanted him.  The mission was top priority.  I needed to get my head on straight and clean out all the compartments I’d be using in the coming weeks: infiltration, hacking, destruction, and a partnership that looked like a normal marriage.  I wouldn’t have bothered with the latter at all if I’d thought I could count on Heero, Quatre, and Wufei to have my back, to play the game.  I silently damned Howard for waiting until _today_ to freakin’ send that email.

I sighed.  At least he’d sent it.  Now all I had to do was drag three guys, who would be kicking and screaming the whole way, into accepting absolution.  Fun.

Well, none of it was going to happen at all if I couldn’t keep myself rested, so I locked away all my thoughts of Trowa, missions, and a specific region in my pants which seemed to be miraculously zero G… and just freakin’ shut my eyes.  Eventually, I’d fall asleep and when that joyous event occurred, I’d be ready for it.

 

 

NOTES:

“Tro-bot” is from the third installment of Avarice’s Appearances series titled _Armchair Psychology_

“A good catholic boy” is a nod to Lone Wolf’s AU 1x2 fic of the same name.

The fishing metaphor brings to mind “The Right Bait” by Shenlong & “Just My Luck” by Kwycksylver.

Let me know if you have any questions about my references to the series and/or pre-pilot days of the characters.  I’m trying to stay in the realm of canon, here.


	2. Hum Hallelujah

# Chapter 2: Hum Hallelujah

_Say a prayer but let the good times roll in case God doesn’t show…_

 

I knew Trowa’s work routine by heart.  Having slaved mindlessly away on the same floor for four years together, I’d memorized it for something to do.  Hell, I’d memorized everyone’s respective routines for something to do.  As far as I could tell, Trowa had never once deviated from his and I didn’t expect he’d start today.  So there was no point in me rolling my ass outta bed before 9:30 a.m. since Trowa was going to be cleaning the bathrooms until about then.  I did _not_ want to have our next conversation in the john.  Ugh.

I got my exhausted, insomniatic ass up at 9:35 and re-braided my hair.  I brushed my teeth.  I shaved.  I stuffed myself into my usual monkey suit and slipped the necktie on over my head.  Quatre had given each of us one of these damn things after our fates had been sealed.  This was still the only one I owned.  I never even bothered to unknot it.  I just didn’t care enough.

Today, I cared about the wrinkles in my shirt and the lint on my suit jacket, though, which was weird.  It wasn’t as if I had to work at impressing Trowa; he’d already agreed and all.  Pretty enthusiastically, too, I might add.

I cleared my throat nervously.  Right, enough of that shit.  I had to get moving.

I swiped my pass card at my apartment door and ventured down the hall.  At the elevator, I swiped it again.  I bypassed the sports gym and medical bay on the second floor and got off on the first.  The cafeteria was closed at this hour and, across the way, the door to the small chapel was open as always but the interior was dark.  Later, I’d have to have a chat with Father Daniels after he got in, but for now I had a maintenance closet to look in on.

Pass card still in hand, I swiped my way out of the residential condo, crossed the guarded drive and swiped my way into the lobby of my personal hell.

“Hey, Bret,” I greeted.

“Morning, Mr. Maxwell.  It’s good to see you made it in before I went on my coffee break.”

I snorted and sauntered over to the elevator.  “But please, hold your applause until the end!” I quipped and he chuckled.

Another swipe of my pass card and in I went, up to the eighth floor.  I summoned up my hatred of the place and twisted it into something I could stomach.  Our days here were numbered; I kept that in mind as I grinned into the cavernous, administrative office space.  I made my first obligatory stop of the day and leaned over Wufei’s cubicle wall to mock his punctuality and work ethic.  I then tap danced my way over to the maintenance closet.

I successfully resisted the urge to straighten my tie and adjust my cuffs and got on with banging out a sappy message in Morse code against the door.  I got all the way to the “o” in “I missed you!” before it swung open.

“Trowa,” I greeted.

“Duo,” he replied.

My brain stalled.  I just kinda stared at him for a minute, remembering that I’d had my hand on his hip just _there_ last night, and that mouth had sucked my lower lip, and his hair had tickled my nose when he’d leaned in, and…

Oh, fuck.  What the hell was wrong with me?

A tiny smirk pinched those warm lips together and he reached out to tap my forehead with a single, callused fingertip.  “Knock knock.  Is anybody home in there?”

“Nope.  Sorry.  Come back later.”

“Out to lunch already?”

“Never left, actually.”

“That would explain why you act like the office is your personal jungle gym.”

“Nah, it’s my sandbox.  I’ve got something else in mind for my personal jungle gym.”  Oh, Christ.  Had I just said that?

Trowa’s smirk broadened into something positively evil.  “Something tells me you play well with others.”

Holy… mother… of…!

I sputtered through a laugh.  “I can’t keep any secrets from you, huh?”

“Keep at it,” he encouraged, moving his mop and bucket cart out into the aisle.  “Persistence,” Trowa advised in a come-hither-into-my-bed voice, “is the key.”

And then I was watching his khaki-covered ass stroll away.  Shit.  How was it he always got the last damn word?

I turned on my heel and marched around to Heero’s desk.  “Cheer the hell up,” I ordered him.  “Tonight’s lasagna night.”

He glared harder at his computer, the contrary bastard.  I glanced past his shoulder at Quatre who I caught in the act of looking up from a report that could be the evil twin of the one he’d been attempting to conquer yesterday.  “Who’s winning over there, Q?  You or the ledger?”

“We’re going best out of seventeen,” he replied, grinning in spite of his obvious frustration.

“Keep me updated!”  I tossed that last bit over my shoulder before strutting off to my desk and more or less diving into my squeaky chair.

“Mr. Maxwell—” my supervisor began with a rather obnoxious growl.

I immediately started humming to myself as I turned on my computer screen.  It wasn’t until I made it to the end of the first stanza that I realized I was entertaining everyone with an old space junker drinking song well known for its raunchy lyrics.  Well, given that everyone in this damn place (except for a few, select former Gundam pilots) was Earth-born, I didn’t figure I’d be offending anyone if I went right ahead and finished the song.

I clicked my way through the three hundred and thirteen messages that had poured in overnight with my left pinkie.  With my right hand, I was doodling away on a yellow sticky note.

When Trowa approached on his daily meander, I halted him with a whine.  “Oh, man!  Tro, do you have something in that cart that’ll get this gum off the bottom of my shoe?”

He raised a brow – or maybe he raised two; that damn hair of his was always in the frickin’ way – and glanced down.  I stuck out my leg, indicating the afflicted sole.

He snorted.  “Your powers of observation are failing, Maxwell Man,” he droned, swooping down and flicking a used sticky note off of the tread.  He held it up for me to see, his fingers obscuring the doodles thereon.

“My hero,” I falsetto-ed and commenced with the mandatory mock swoon.

“I’ll be expecting my kiss of gratitude once you get off work,” he informed me flatly.

I barked out a laugh.  “Feelin’ lucky are we?”

He let me have the last word.  But the smirk?  Oh yeah, _that_ we shared.

I turned back to my desk then to find no less than four pairs of eyes on me.  “What?” I defended.  “He may be the strong and silent type, but he _can_ talk.”

It was clear by the way they hesitantly pivoted themselves back to their computer screens, one by one, that no one quite knew how to respond to that.  I swivel-squeaked back to my own work; the shriek of my office chair masked the sound of my chuckle nicely.

Damn, but this mission was turning out to be a freakin’ barrel of laughs.  I wasn’t sure how long we’d be able to keep it up, but I was sure as hell gonna enjoy it while it lasted!

Unfortunately, I entered the doldrums after that.  The rest of the day crawled past… on amputated limbs… over a field of broken glass.  I was pretty sure I’d crack before lunch, but I squeaked by with my sanity and then I was in the four-hour home stretch.  It was too bad Trowa’s daily patrol only brought him by my desk once because I had way too many one-liners to choose from today.

In between clicking, banging my head on the desk in front of my keyboard, and compulsive doodling, I did a lot of glaring at the clock.  I could tell it was trying to defy me as I psychically urged it on, but resistance was futile.

The minute hand ticked one last time and yes!  It was officially quittin’ time.  Trowa was organizing the carpet cleanser bottles by expiration date in his little clutter cubby when I zoomed past.

“Catch me if you can, hot lips!” I jeered and took off for the elevators.  I glanced over my shoulder in time to see Trowa leaning out of the janitorial closet giving me a look of deep and profound promise.  Cackling, I made my escape.

Of course I ran right over to hallowed ground to claim sanctuary.

“Father Daniels?” I called, poking my head into the tiny chapel.  It was kinda sad knowing that the only reason this, the meditation room, and the mosque upstairs were here was because Relena had raised a huge stink about morality or some such.  I think most people assumed that all five of us attended one of these holy temples.  Unfortunately, I was pretty sure the other guys – with the exception of Wufei, perhaps – were normally too damn zombified by our soul-sucking work to bother.  I attended mass religiously (if you’ll pardon the pun) more to escape the stomach-churning nausea of my life than out of any true religious fervor.  On weekday nights and weekend mornings when I wasn’t praying to the holy Virgin Mary, Heero and I were usually found in the gym, trying to choke, pin, and basically trash each other into another dimension.  Obviously, neither one of us had managed to do so yet.  I probably would have felt kinda down about knowing that wrestling with Heero wasn’t going to be the same anymore since he’d tucked tail if not for the fact that I had every intention of gettin’ us out from under Big Brother’s thumb in T-minus one week.

“Duo!” Father Daniels called, grinning with delight.   “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

And then suddenly, I just had no clue how to begin.  Shit, I was supposed to be in love or some such.  Would I be nervous or euphoric about getting married?  Maybe nervous and shy.  I was honestly a little too wiped out from all that mouse clicking and email scanning to manage euphoric.  Besides, I didn’t want Father Daniels to get the idea that I’d been sniffin’ around Trowa’s aromatic cleaning cupboard and had just stopped by to admire all the pretty colors in the stained glass windows.

“I… I’m getting married,” I informed him softly and watched the old man’s wrinkle-lined face stretch into a joyous smile.

“I’m so very happy for you, Duo!”

“Th-thanks,” I stuttered, playing up the bashful bit.  “I was hoping you’d agree to conduct the ceremony for us…?”

“Of course!  Have you and your fiancée decided on a date?”

As I named this coming Sunday, I half expected him to object.

“That’s fine.  After mass, then?  Or an evening ceremony?”

I nodded, letting a hesitant smile begin to curve my lips.  “Evening,” I decided on a whim.  “Yeah, that’d be great.”

“I’ll send for a marriage certificate.  Would you like me to ask Imam Raja and Tanaka Sensei to act as your witnesses?”

“Er, maybe?”  Damn, it looked like I’d be writing up some invitations tonight if I wanted someone I’ve actually spoken to to do the honors.  “I’ll let you know.”

He nodded.  I briefly wondered if it was his impending retirement or inherent Catholicism that made him so freakin’ agreeable.  Oh, which reminded me.  He still didn’t know I wasn’t intending to marry a woman.  “Thanks, Father.  Trowa and I really appreciate this.”

This was news to him, I could see.  But, then again, I’d never given him any indication that I swung that way.  Father Daniels didn’t frown, but he did look saddened.  Yeah, I knew where this was going.

Anticipating his next words, I mumbled, “I know you can’t perform a traditional ceremony for us, but you can still marry us, right?”

“Oh, yes.  It’ll have to be a civil ceremony, I’m afraid.”

“That’s fine.”  Seriously, it was.  He didn’t have to look so heartbroken over it.

“I am so sorry, Duo.  I’m sure you were hoping for something more spiritual…”

OK, this was gonna take all night if I didn’t head him off at the pass here with something trite and sappy.  “It will be,” I soothed him, “no matter what words you use, Father.”

And _finally,_ he let it go.  “It warms my heart to hear that.”

I focused on not gagging on my own lameness.  “I suppose you think we’re moving way too fast,” I heard myself sigh out.  I knew I had to test the waters here before we faced shock and possibly resistance from the others, but damn did I want to boogie my ass upstairs and at least change into my comfy combat boots before grabbing a ration of lasagna in the building’s cafeteria.

To my surprise, Father Daniels just shook his head at me and placed an arthritic and ointment-smelling hand on my shoulder.  “Duo, you’ve been here for four years.  I’m happy to see you moving forward with your life.”

Wow.  That sounded… creepily accurate in a psychic-premonition kind of way.  I rolled with it by letting out the breath I’d been holding and nodding.  “Well, there’s nothing we can do about our circumstances but we’ve decided to make the best of it together.”

“That’s all any of us can do,” Father Daniels agreed sagely.  “Will I see you at mass this evening?”

I nodded.  I figured I’d better come; of the residential complex’s two dozen or so fellow Catholics, few bothered with Wednesday evening mass.  Call me a pushover, but I felt kinda bad thinking of Father Daniels going through the motions in an empty room.

“Duo?”

I turned at the sound of Trowa’s voice calling from the doorway.  I invited him in with a smile and dared to hold my hand out to him a bit.  “Trowa, I was just talking to the good father here about our big day.”

Trowa reached my side but, instead of taking my hand, he slid a possessive arm around my waist.  Do you know how hard it is to force yourself _not_ to tense?  I was pretty sure that was an oxymoron.

“Is a civil ceremony OK?” I checked, a little taken aback by how totally his attention was on me.

“That’s fine.”  He nodded and _finally_ turned his gaze toward Father Daniels.  “Thank you.”

Trowa offered his hand and Father Daniels shook it.  Words of wisdom were offered and Trowa hummed noncommittally.  He was almost as accomplished as Heero at that sort of thing.  And then I was promising to be back later as Trowa nudged me toward the door.

“Where’s the fire?” I asked him as he herded me toward the elevators.

“It’s lasagna night,” he retorted and I resisted the urge to guffaw right there in the echoing lobby, “and I’m not going to sit in my own fumes through dinner.”

“That explains you,” I observed as we both scanned our pass cards and stepped into the empty elevator.  I hated how the damned thing could sense our combined weight and individual heat signatures and freakin’ refused to budge until all pass cards had been presented.

I continued, “But what do _I_ have to do with you getting de-fumigated?”  I’d meant it to come out sounding scrappy but playful, but I had no idea whether I’d managed it or not.

Trowa leaned bodily across me – and, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he did it deliberately in an attempt to tease me – and I huffed out a breath to keep myself from shivering as he pushed the button for our floor.  The doors slid shut and, in the next instant, I found myself crowded against the wall of the lift, Trowa’s single, visible green eye squinting down at me.

“You owe me a kiss.”

I had just enough time to process the reminder and start getting my back up over him being all high-and-mighty about it before he swooped down and just _laid_ it on me.

Oh, God but he could kiss.

“No fair,” I whined, turning my head to the side before that lip sucking thing he did drove me total bugfuck insane.  “What’s your ex’s name?”

“My ex?”  He almost sputtered.

I took a page from his book and returned squint.  “Or is there more than one?”

“Hundreds,” he admitted readily and then his tone took a snarky turn, “what with all the free time I’ve had since my pilot training and the generous selection of trustworthy, single men living in our building.”

I gawked at him long enough for the elevator to stop moving.  With his hand pressing into the small of my back, he guided me as I stumbled down the corridor to my front door.

“Wait up,” I said, coming back to myself with a jerk when he reached for the pass card dangling from the strap around my neck.  Grasping his wrist, I growled and hissed with incredulity, “Are you telling me this is all natural talent?”

“What is?”

“This, dammit,” I choked out before I pressed my lips to his.  He crowded me, moving forward and pushing me back until the card scanner jabbed me in the shoulder, but I didn’t pay it any attention.  He nudged, he brushed, he nibbled, and yes damnitalltohell he did that lip sucking thing until I thought I was going to start riding whatever part of him I could wrap my legs around.

Fuck!

I let my knees sag until the kiss broke and I could duck under his arm.  I planted my feet in the middle of the hall with no small amount of relief and glared. 

“Play fair, Barton,” I scolded him, absently formulating a strategy for getting into my apartment to change clothes for dinner despite him standing between me and my palm scanner and card swiper.

“Hm,” he hummed softly, giving me an evaluating look.  I resisted the urge to tug at the front of my pants.  Let him look if he damn well wanted to, and it seemed that he did in fact want to.  “Wufei is the one who plays fair.”

“And just what do you play then?” I challenged.

He answered.  “For keeps.”

And then he leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “I’ll save you a seat at dinner.”

Dumbly, I nodded.  I didn’t turn as he brushed past me.  I didn’t inhale the warm puff of air that he stirred in his wake.  Fingers numb, I slid my card, scanned my palm, and frickin’ scampered into my apartment.  I waited until the door whispered shut behind me before I took my next breath.

Holy shit.  Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

That wasn’t the only thing running through my head, but I preferred indulging in that litany to recalling Trowa’s preference for trustworthy, single _men._

Shit.  Shit shit shit.  Trowa liked men and I was pretty sure I didn’t – at least not on general principle, but my body seemed to like Trowa plenty, didn’t it? – and we were gettin’ hitched in four days and—!

“Hold up, Maxwell,” I heard myself say.  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped off of the freak out wagon.  Of course Trowa would say something like that.  He was _acting._   With all the security cameras in the public spaces of this building, he couldn’t very well indicate that he liked women, not when our freedom hinged on him marrying me and managing it convincingly!  He’d just been performing for our watchers, whoever they were.  None of it had been real.

Well, except for the mighty cell phone just about vibrating its way out of my pants, but hell, that was par for the course at my age.

I rubbed my hands briskly over my face and then lurched into the bathroom.  Bracing myself against the sink, I cranked open the tap and started splashing around in the water before I remembered I was still wearing my damn suit.  Irritated all over again, I tore the thing off and tossed it, piece by piece, onto the nearest chair beyond the open door.  Last but not least, I jerked the noose of a necktie – still knotted – over my head and sent it sailing on a direct trajectory for the coffee table. 

And _then_ I washed my face, my overheated neck, my too tense shoulders and quaking arms.  Shit, either I had to get a grip or Trowa was gonna have to stop pushing me.  I scowled when I realized the former would be the logical solution here.  Hell, if we weren’t dying to get in each other’s pants, there’d be no rush for the ceremony, right?  So, dammit, Tro had the right of it.

 So much for him following _my_ lead.  Some suave Casanova I was turning out to be.

I turned off the tap and stood there dripping into the small basin.  I couldn’t hear anyone moving out in the hallway, but I imagined Trowa exiting his room, glancing at my locked door, and then just heading for the elevators.  On the security screens somewhere across the street and on the second floor, he’d look just fine and dandy.  In my head, though, he looked pissed.

Damn, but I’d come close to fucking up.

That got me moving.  I jumped into a pair of black cargo pants and a black turtleneck.  I stuck my feet into my black combat boots and boogied the hell outta there.  I entered the cafeteria just as Trowa was approaching the checkout with two identical trays of lasagna.  I made it over to him and scanned my ever-fucking-present pass card along with his after snagging it from his jeans back pocket.  I replaced his card and took my tray from his hand with a sheepish grin.

“Thanks,” I mumbled.  “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Isn’t that what fiancés are for?”

“What if I’d been late?”  The cafeteria wench wouldn’t have let him take two helpings for himself.

“I knew you wouldn’t be.”  And right then and there, I knew he still trusted me, still had faith in me.  I didn’t think I deserved it, honestly, but I was gonna try to be that guy – try to be the partner I should be – starting now.  I held his chair out for him and slid mine so close that I could feel his leg press against my knee beneath the table.

We ate in silence, watching the room fill with our coworkers and colleagues, although there were a helluvalot of people I’d never seen in the office building across the street.  I had to assume they worked on different floors.  At first glance, it might have seemed kind of strange that so many outsiders were living in the same building with us.  But, given the fact that the nearest town… hell, the nearest _highway_ was over twenty kilometers away, beyond the three-story tall, electrified razor-wire-topped concrete walls and past wide open fields with no scrub brush, forests, or other natural cover to speak of, almost everyone who worked in this facility had to be residents.  The people came and went pretty regularly.  I noticed new faces every sixteen to twenty months.  I figured many of them had families that they went home to on weekends and holidays.  I’d never asked, so I didn’t really know.

But, I was going to be one of those guys soon; in a few days, I’d have a husband to come home to.

Plastic fork nearly to my mouth, I froze.  Damn.  How had _that_ thought managed to blindside me?

“Duo?”

I started breathing again at Trowa’s soft prompting.  “I never realized,” I mumbled contritely, “that we didn’t discuss who would perform the ceremony.”  The sticky note I’d passed him today had depicted stick figures of us standing at the altar in the chapel, but he hadn’t exactly weighed in on the issue.  “Are you OK with me asking Father Daniels?”

“Of course.”

I glanced at him, noting that he was moving as slowly and neatly through his meal as I was.  I wondered at that.  Perhaps his own past, like mine, hadn’t exactly been set in the land of plenty.

Still, I hesitated to put my forkful of hovering pasta out of its misery.  “Would you like to come to mass with me tonight?”

He gave me a sardonic look and I rolled my eyes.

“Christ, Tro, it’s not like one time is gonna turn you into a good little catholic boy.”

He chuckled softly and I joined him when I realized that even I wasn’t all that good, all that little, or all that catholic.  And I’d had years of exposure to mass.

He relented with a roll of his right shoulder that could have been some exotic variety of shrug.  “What time?”

I glanced at the clock.  “Not for another thirty minutes.  You want a coffee or somethin’?”

Trowa nodded but held up his hand to stop me when I started to stand.  He went and fetched the cups for us and shocked me speechless when I found a single chocolate chip cookie balanced on my saucer.  A coffee and a cookie – a nod to childhood nostalgia and should-have-been’s – was my usual dinner wrap-up.  Huh.  Maybe I hadn’t been the only person studying everyone else’s routines over the years.

We sipped in silence.  Whenever I shifted in my seat, my knee would rub against Trowa’s leg and I held my cup with both hands because… well, just because.  The quiet space we occupied soothed me as effectively as our snarky one-liners in the office kept me sane.  Now that I thought about it, I was kind of impressed he could accommodate me like this.  Although, looking back over the years, I could see this very pattern emerging.  He’d always had a comeback for me at the office and provided quiet companionship during the infrequent dinners we’d shared.

I wasn’t really sure what to make of that.

We left before Heero finished up with his workout in the gym.  I’d bet actual money (if I’d had any) that the guy prayed to dumbbells; if Heero had any kind of religion, it’d be found in sweat and adversity.  I imagined Wufei was stubbornly continuing to meditate on an empty stomach at the Buddhist temple on the third floor, purging his mind of all the numbers he’d crunched today, and Quatre was probably still across the street wrestling with ledgers and reports, to be honest.

Oddly enough, I liked that it was just the two of us: Trowa and me.

I saw the evening mass service with new eyes now that I had someone to explain its intricacies to.  Trowa obligingly bent his head down so I could breathe explanations and instructions in his ear.  I kinda suspected that this wasn’t his first time attending, though.  He was too graceful and sure of himself for him to be a true novice.  I couldn’t bring myself to feel chagrinned over it, though.  It had been nice feeling his shoulder lean against mine, time and time again.  Nice and, well, warm.

I chuckled softly.  I guess Trowa was just naturally, um, hot.

It was probably a good thing that only five other people had showed up for the service and they were all sitting in the pews ahead of us.  At several points during the liturgy, I was startled to feel an uplifting deep within me, as if my soul were waking and stirring.  And, I ain’t gonna lie, I flushed when I caught my hand twitching toward Trowa’s beside me.  Luckily, I got that under control real quick.

When it was all finished and “Thanks be to God” was still echoing in the tiny space, I stood and, with a hand on Trowa’s elbow, guided him out.  I would usually go up and have a few words with Father Daniels, but tonight a woman sought him out and I didn’t feel like hanging around.

I was a little surprised that Trowa let me escort him into the elevator just as he’d done to me earlier and I realized several things right then.  First, even though Trowa seemed to be the more comfortable of the two of us with our new, er, relationship, he also seemed perfectly willing to let me lead if I felt the inclination.  Second, he’d been doing quite a lot of the work here, in essence covering for me.  He’d upheld appearances without pushing me in the intimacy department of things.

This last thought came to me when I realized that he and I haven’t played tonsil hockey yet.  I briefly wondered if he’d held back for my benefit or because he objected to sticking his tongue in my mouth for the sake of the mission.

Well, I guess there was one or two ways to find out.  Naturally, I chose the course with the most potential to blow up in my face.

As it was my turn to walk him to his door, that’s where I turned him toward me.  There was no resistance in him when I reached up and slowly guided his head down to me.  And then my lips were on his again and I didn’t waste time hemming and hawing about whether or not this was a good idea.  A tiny lick was his only warning and then things were up close and _very_ personal.

OK, this would be my first of this kind of kiss.  I relinquished the lead to him when he brushed his tongue against mine and then I just freakin’ rode it out.  And damn, what a ride.

Trowa freakin’ _rocked_ me against him, his tongue surging into my mouth again and again, charting every ridge in my palate.  His breath puffed against my cheek and I answered the soft growly noise he made with something embarrassingly moan-ish.  At some point, I closed my eyes.  Probably because my brain had been going into overload from the sudden influx of sensory data and I had to make some cutbacks to non-necessary systems.

In the dark, his scent mixed in with his heat and the hardness of his muscles and it was like being eaten alive.

When we finally parted, both my arms were wrapped around his shoulders – although, for the life of me, I had no idea when _that_ had happened – and his hands were gripping my waist, holding me snug against him.  I stared at him, occasionally blinking.  And I’m not saying I was panting or anything, but, um, you get the idea.

“Um,” I rasped, brain buzzingly numb.  “Um…”

“Hm,” he answered on a rumble, massaging my sides with his palms.

“Um,” I tried – and failed – again.

I suppose he was due bonus points for somehow _not_ laughing at me.  “Would you like to come in?”

His voice was pitched low and soft and disturbingly sexy.  Damn, but I was still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I’d tangled tongues with a man, with one of my war buddies, with my future mission partner, and I so could not handle _that_ tone.  Not now.  Maybe not ever.

I shook my head.  “Ca—”  I had to stop and clear my throat.  “Catholic,” I reminded him.

He didn’t look surprised.  I told myself – firmly – that I was _not_ seeing either disappointment or resignation in his expression.

“Good night,” I managed.

“Good night, good catholic boy,” Trowa replied with a tiny smile.  He smoothed a forefinger down the bridge of my nose and then left me standing there with my heart still pounding, my lips tingling, and a serious situation developing in my pants.

I tripped down the hall to my apartment and sequestered myself inside.  Things down south settled a bit after a few calming breaths.  Yeah, I figured Trowa and I were gonna handle the kissing part of the wedding ceremony just fine what with all the practicing we’d been doing.  I was kinda looking forward to seeing the gob smacked expressions on our friends’ faces.

Which reminded me: I had invitations to pen and deliver.

It’s probably abnormal how much enjoyment I take in my missions.  But, y’know, if it’s the last thing I do, then I wanna be laughing my ass off through it.  That’s just a slice of my super-secret personal philosophy.

“What.  Is this?” Wufei demanded when I popped by his desk at an eager beaver 9:15 the next morning.

“A surprise!” I responded perkily just so I could see his eyebrow twitch.  Just like— yes! There it is! I love my work.

His black gaze flicked between me and the card.  “You…  Barton…  This…!”

Since he seemed to have processed the gist of it, I rescued his floundering ass.  “Yup, yup, and this Sunday.  Hope you can make it.  Well, I’m off to finish my deliveries,” I sing-songed, waving the other two invitations in the air.

Wufei ignored the data he was supposed to be entering and stared at me.

I gave him a grin, a wink, and then danced back two steps before sashaying myself over to the CEO’s den.

“Hey, Heero,” I greeted, leaning a hip against his immaculate desk.  He ignored me, so I took my time lining up Quatre’s invitation like I was about to toss a shuriken and then I let it fly.  I must still have the ol’ Maxwell magic because it zoom-tumbled through the air and conked him on the head before bouncing onto the stack of budget reports that he was communing with.

“Duo?” he asked, picking up the invitation.

“The one and only,” I affirmed, and then I plopped Heero’s onto his keyboard where he’d have to touch it in order to move it out of his way.

A gasp from Quatre’s office had me looking away from Heero and meeting Q’s teacup-saucer-wide eyes.  “When…?  How…?” he sputtered.

I smirked.  A motion out of the corner of my eye drew my gaze back to Heero.  He’d just flipped open the card.

He then flipped it closed, methodically stuffed it back into the envelope, and set it aside.  “Tonight.  Wrestling mat.  17:30 hours,” he informed me.

“Oh?” I retorted, determined to make him work for it.  “Would you like me to come and cheer for you, buddy?”

He glared at me.  “Bring your game.”

I just about choked on a laugh.  I was pretty sure he’d picked that little phrase up from me.  Hearing it come out of his mouth made me question if I was in the right dimension.

“Do not bruise me,” I ordered, laying down the conditions of my compliance.  “If I end up _limping_ to the altar, Trowa will eat your spleen for lunch.”

And _finally_ I got the standard Heero grunt.  Christ, I’d been starting to despair of ever hearing it again.  At least there was something of my former partner in there somewhere.  Too bad I’d had to drag him out into the light of day with a winch and hooks made of frickin’ Gundanium.

Satisfied that my work here was done – for the time being anyway – I killed the next twenty minutes contemplating the water cooler and then I moseyed on over to Trowa’s closet of crap, right on time for our daily dose of snark.  Or was it more like a metaphorical pinch on the ass now?

“Guess who?” I crowed through the closed door.

Trowa answered almost immediately.  He swung the thing wide open, propped it against the wall, did that bracing himself thing with his hands on the jamb, cocked his head to the side and mused, “Hm.  You look familiar.”  He proceeded to look me up… and down… and up again.  “Have you come out of the closet, too?”

Definitely more like a pinch on the ass.  What the hell?

“Somebody’s feeling witty today,” I retorted around the choking sensation of nearly swallowing my own tongue.

He raised a brow and his left eye freakin’ twinkled.  “How’s that working for me?”

 _Pretty damn well,_ I didn’t say.  “Don’t quit your day job,” I quipped.

He tossed his head back and actually barked out a laugh.  I found myself huffing out a chuckle right along with him, as if his mirth were contagious.

And then he leaned forward, still bracing himself in the door and the subtle motion caught me completely off-guard.  That’s my excuse for completely and utterly losing my mind: I had a sudden flash of Trowa – a black tank-topped and legging-ed Trowa – in a gymnasium, wrapped and resined hands each gripping a ring as he pulled himself into that damn iron cross pose that has always made my mind go blank and jaw drop open whenever I’ve seen it on vid broadcasts of gymnastics championships.  I don’t think I mewled or anything, but there must have been some change in my expression or breathing because Trowa’s lips stretched into a secretive smile.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

I rallied.  “Luckily for me, you’re penniless.”

“That’s all right,” he returned.  “There’s a good chance we’ll _both_ be getting lucky soon enough.”

This time, when he pushed the mop and bucket out of the closet, he deliberately brushed by me.  I felt his long fingers trail over my wrist and palm before he was meandering down the aisle on his way to being productive.

I was pretty sure _my_ productivity was at an all-time low after _that_ little interlude.  I plunked my ass down in front of my computer screen.  I clicked.  I forwarded.  But I couldn’t tell you what a single one of those damn emails had actually said.

When Trowa wheeled the garbage pit by, I didn’t give him a doodle.  I just stared at him as he strolled past.  And, was it just me, or had the guy gotten exponentially sexier in the past two days?  I mean, damn.  I couldn’t look at his mouth without remembering that hot, deep, rocking kiss from the night before.  And, shit, I couldn’t even shift my gaze to his ear without remembering how warm he was or how nice he smelled.  The last insult was the bare patch of soft skin at the nape of his neck above his collar.  Goddamn but _that_ little temptation ensured that my boosters hit full throttle.  It was only by some length of my pride that I kept the rocket on the launch pad.

Oh, how I was looking forward to quittin’ time today.  I was all wound up with no one to torture.  Thank God Heero had already – sorta – volunteered.

“Remember what I said about bruises?” I said by way of greeting as I toed off my shoes and socks at the edge of the gym’s wrestling mat.  It was early evening yet and the place was deserted.  I figured since there weren’t any witnesses, a reminder was in order.

Heero, already standing on the mat and wearing those damn stupid spandex shorts, gave me a brief glare.

“Yeah, well, the same doesn’t apply to you,” I informed him and then we started circling each other, hands up and at the ready.

This wasn’t the first time we’d met on the mat.  Hell, until recently, it’d seemed like this was my other religion.  If we kept at it long enough, Heero usually won but, by God, I made him earn it.  Nobody escapes a choke hold like Duo Maxwell.

Heero surprised me by lunging first.  I wiggled out of the way, laughing.  “Hey, now.  If you keep that up, I’m gonna start wondering if you missed me, buddy.”

His right eyebrow twitched.  That was my one and only warning.  He swatted at me with an open palm, but I knew this maneuver was only meant to put me off balance before he pounced.  I danced out of range with a manic grin. 

“I guess it’s just not the same when Wufei kicks your ass, eh?”

Heero’s lips pulled back into one of his creepy smiles.  I was on guard instantly.  “Yeah.  My ego’s been suffering.”

And then he launched the Unavoidable Yuy Attack of Underhanded Nastiness™.  I landed on the mat with an echoing _smack!_   I rolled.  I wiggled.  I writhed.  And then I had him right where I wanted him.

I twisted my entire torso under his weight and threw my hips upward.  If I’d been breakdancing on the street somewhere, I would have ended up doing a spinning headstand, but the momentum was just enough to knock him to the side.  I whipped around, felt my braid smack him right across the nose, and then jackrabbited myself out of range.

I crouched just beyond his reach and tried not to laugh at his dumbfounded expression.  Maybe I should have just used a rolled up newspaper.  He had that same startled puppy look.

“Hah!  That was a Lightning-Fast-Reflex _fail,_ buddy.  You slowin’ down in your old age?”

He didn’t answer my taunts verbally, but then again he was kinda busy trying to keep up with me.  Anyone who tells you wrestling is all about strength is obviously playing by the rules and, in a _real_ fight, that kinda thinkin’ will get your ass D-E-D, dead.

The third time I took Heero down and then rolled away, regaining my feet at a safe distance, I thought to apply a little Maxwell Obnoxiousness to my tactics.  “How’s your ego now?” I checked with devilish delight.

“Just getting warmed up,” he replied flatly, not the least bit peeved.

From extensive experience, I knew that did not bode well for me.  I dived for his ankles before he could make good on that threat.  We tumbled and twisted.  Heero was strong and freakin’ heavy, but I was fast and flexible.  When we faced off for the sixth time in our ongoing match, I noticed a silent figure leaning by the door.

Damn.  Trowa.

That was as far as I got before I was dodging and spinning my ass out of Heero’s reach.  Before he could regroup and I could start obsessing over our audience, I executed my patented Shinigami Kamekazi Blitz.

It sounds more impressive than it actually is.  Basically, I took him down with a flying glomp, bounced off, and then clobbered him from behind.

“Hah!  I win!” I declared and then got my ass the hell outta there before he could retaliate.  I grinned at him from the edge of the mat.  With both my feet on the gym floor, Heero had little choice but to drop the wrestling pose.

He did so with a disgusted snort.  “Cheat,” he announced.

“Well I sure as hell ain’t no Wufei.”  And if he wanted a fair fight, that’s who he ought to recruit for it.

Heero shook his head in mock dejection as he joined me near the shoe pile.  I waved to Trowa, signing for him to give me just one more minute, and then I moved to a nearby bench to put my boots back on.  Surprisingly, Heero sat down next to me.

Very quietly, he rumbled, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”  He didn’t have to glance in Trowa’s direction for me to put two and two together.

I rolled my eyes.  “It’s not rocket science, man.  People get hitched all the time.”

Heero continued, scowling slightly.  “There’s going to be fallout.”  That was all part of the plan.  “Those records will be public,” he added.  Again, part of the plan.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.  But, shit, it’s been four years.  As long as the five great terrors who freakin’ saved civilization are locked up and being useful, no one’s gonna give a damn.”

Heero just nodded.  It wasn’t one of his “Dammit, you’re being logical so I have to agree with you” nods, though.  It was his _ninmu ryokai_ nod.

“Good luck,” he said flatly.  He gave his shoelaces a final tug, stood, and strode out of the room.  I watched him give Trowa a nod in passing, but he didn’t say anything else. 

I didn’t doubt that he had a few words for Trowa, too, but he’d probably wait until I wasn’t around to come out with whatever was on his mind.  It was kinda nice that Heero was worried about me.  Hell, any indication that there was still a spark of the old fire in him was welcome.  He’d been my first comrade-in-arms since… well, since I’d shot him.  It was good to have him back.

Looking up, I caught Trowa’s eye.  He looked like his old wartime self, leaning in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a turtleneck with his arms crossed over his chest.  He was perfectly still.  _Too_ perfectly still.  Shit.  Maybe he was thinking that I would have preferred Heero for this mission.  Maybe he was thinking that I’d call off the wedding now that my old partner seemed to be coming around.

Which was just plain ridiculous.  Sure, Heero was my original partner, but if I’d had the choice to make all over again, I still would’ve picked Trowa for this.  Like I said, Heero was my original partner so I knew him and myself well enough to know one or both of us would be screaming and tearing our own hair out before the end of Day One.

I stood and swaggered over to my, er, fiancé, showing off my impressive, sweaty glory.  “Good timing,” I congratulated him.  “Not only did I get to awe and amaze you with my warrior prowess, but I think I was starting to miss you.”

And just like someone had flipped a switch, he was relaxed again.  His arms sagged and then dropped completely.  He pushed himself off the wall and, with a tiny smile, teased, “Already?”

“Short attention span,” I admitted.

He nodded thoughtfully.  “Noted.  The next time I need to get your attention, I’ll try a flying tackle.”

“That will definitely get you noticed, although it may not win you any points.”

Without a word, Trowa swooped down and freakin’ planted his lips on mine, drawing a gasp from me and then inviting himself into my mouth.  It was brief, hot, and _very_ noticeable.

“How was that?” he inquired, leaning back.

“Pretty good,” I had to admit.  It still bothered me that I’d liked it but… to hell with it.  I was marrying the man.  I was _supposed_ to like it when he kissed me. 

“How many points did I earn?”

I grinned at his earnest expression.  Christ, it was almost as if he actually gave a damn.  I snorted.  “I’ll let you know when the scoreboard stops tallying.”

“You do that,” he answered, watching me with one of those glittering green sidelong glances.  I told myself I was still flushed from my earlier exertion.  There was no way I was blushing just from a _look._   No freakin’ way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "D-E-D, dead" thing is my it’s-funny-yet-so-true way of describing a situation so serious that anything but phonetic spelling would be pointless. Duo really can spell. He’s just saying that you’d be, like, SRSLY dead. SRSLY.


	3. Love Songs for the Genuinely Cunning

# Chapter 3: Love Songs for the Genuinely Cunning

_It’s a strange way of saying that I know I’m supposed to love you…_

 

Quatre cornered me next.  I knew it was coming and I knew I wouldn’t be able to avoid Mr. Space Heart CEO, so I took a page from Heero’s mission manual and met him head on with a Beam Cannon when he launched his frontal assault right after dinner.

“Hey, Q.  Truth or dare?”

“Wh-what?” he coughed out on my threshold, bemusement forcing his bright grin to shuffle off and exit stage left.

I motioned him into my apartment with a grand gesture and a bow.  It was too bad my place looked pretty much identical to his.  All five of us had “cozy” efficiency apartments.  I guess that was to discourage block parties.  And then the fact that the security camera and mic installed over the doorway blinked on whenever I had a visitor provided a convenient wet blanket in the case of private chats and co-conspiracy.

I angled myself so that I herded him into my one and only armchair.  I perched on the desk, my stockinged feet on the seat of the provided plastic chair.

Keeping in mind that the security zombies had a clear line of sight and audio into the room, I said, “Truth or dare.  Or I choose for you.”

“Er, truth, I suppose.  What—?”

“Give it to me straight, man.  Is there any reason Trowa and I shouldn’t go through with it on Sunday?”

He blinked at me.

I waited.  I’ve known Quatre almost as long as I’ve known Heero.  In fact, Quatre and I had spent a lot of time lying low together after Heero’s successfully failed self-destruction.  Of course, at the time, I’d really thought he _was_ dead so… Quatre, more than any of the others, has seen me at my worst.  Maybe not my absolute worst, but still pretty damn wretched.

He’d pretty much dragged me from one safe house to another, pulling me along like I was the king to his queen in a game of chess called “life.”  So I knew that look in his eyes, that subtle calculation as he ran through all the possible interpretations of my question.

I helped him with a little camouflage, just in case he was waiting for an opening.  “I know you and Trowa were close.  He was the first fellow pilot you met—”

Quatre’s expression cleared and he shook his head at me.  “Yes, that’s true but, we’re just friends.  That’s all we’ve ever been.”

“And you’re happy with that?” I probed.

He nodded, his bright grin returning.  I guess when he’d dropped it in the hallway, he hadn’t lost it completely.  “Very.”

“That isn’t… um…”  How to say this tactfully?  I wracked my brain but couldn’t come up with a nice way of putting it, so I blurted, “That isn’t the Zero incident talking?  Because, y’know, it’s been years and—”

“Duo.  It’s fine.  Trowa and I came to an understanding on that long ago.”  And I could see the kind of peace in his expression that comes from catharsis.  Yeah, that was old news.  I blew out a relieved breath.

“So what brings you by if you’re not planning on challenging me to a duel over his honor, Winner?”

He chuckled softly.  “A little thing called congratulations,” he replied, his blue eyes sparkling merrily.  “And the fact that they don’t deliver themselves.”

“Ah.”  I gave him a sheepish grin.

He stood then and crossed the room to give me a one-armed hug.  I came off my perch on the top of the desk to receive it, one foot still hooked awkwardly over the edge of the plastic seat.

“Congratulations, Duo.  You’ll be very happy together.”

“Thanks, man,” I replied, rubbing his shoulder the way he has done to me many times in the past.  In fact, he was the one who actually taught me that particular hug accessory.  “So, we’ll see you in the chapel on Sunday evening?”

“Of course!” he replied aghast.  He leaned back and gave me an unarguable look.  “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“Not even spinach quiche?”  Because I was pretty sure that was what was on Sunday’s dinner menu.  I was also pretty sure it was his favorite.

“Not even for spinach quiche,” he informed me and I suddenly felt like my chest had turned into a warm, gooey mess.  Phlegm clogged my throat, so I patted him on the shoulder.

“And,” he continued, “if the press tries to give you and Trowa a hard time over this, I’ll do what I can to help.”

“Thanks,” I rasped, knowing what the offer might end up costing him.  Quatre was as much a prisoner here as the rest of us, but he still had tiny smidgeon of Winner Heir Brand clout.  Interceding on behalf of Trowa and myself would probably use it all up, though.  “You should keep that five-hundred-pound gorilla in reserve, though, buddy,” I insisted, “and get us a movie theater or something installed in this damn pile.”

“Or an Armani?”

I barked out a laugh.  “Hell, where would we wear those fancy duds?  The general store on the first floor is good enough for this thriving metropolis and you know it.”

His smile dimmed then and he got kinda quiet and kinda sad.  “It’s your wedding, Duo.  Surely you wish you could wear a tuxedo?”

“Naw.”  I shrugged off the regret-on-my-behalf that I could see in his eyes.  “How does that old saying go?  Something old, something new, borrowed and blue?”  I held up a hand and counted off each: “My braid is old; our relationship is new; I guess my pass card counts as borrowed and the tie you gave me is a nice navy.  I’ve got it covered, man.”

If I hadn’t known better – if I hadn’t known that Quatre had been a pretty damn tough soldier and a freakin’ awesome pilot during the war – I’d have thought he was fighting tears.  Nah.  Couldn’t be.

Before I could joke about him walking Trowa down the aisle, I was being smothered à la Winner.  He had his arms around my shoulders in a frickin’ bear hug.  Hell, I would have expected something like this from Rashid, not petite Mr. CEO.

“I’m just so, _so_ happy for you,” he explained in a rough voice.  “Trowa is so happy with you.  And it’s clear you feel the same…”

Er… it was?

He stepped back and admitted, “This is the first time in the last four years that I’ve felt certain we did the right thing.”

I gave him a lopsided smile.  “Yeah.”  I didn’t say how weddings in Hell might be different.  Or how prison weddings just… weren’t.  I just shut the hell up and went with it.

As Quatre gave me one last smile in farewell, I wondered if he suspected what this wedding was really about, if he thought for even a moment that this sudden romance wasn’t, y’know, genuine. 

The problem was that I caught myself occasionally forgetting what the whole damn point of it all was, and that, ladies and gentlemen, was dangerous.

Speaking of dangerous, I still had one more visitor to deal with in this Christmas Carol and he, more than the other two, specialized in the kind of sneak attacks you couldn’t see coming.  Hell, you didn’t even feel it when it hit; you only realized you’d taken damage after the wound started stinging.

I figured Wufei was probably done meditating away all the random urges to slam the heel of his hand into people’s faces around the office, so now was as good a time as any to deal with his reaction to all of this.  It would have been nice to have Heero at my back, though.

I paused as I stuffed my feet back in my boots and reconsidered that last thought… and I came up with the same result.  Yeah, I’d choose Heero for this.  I didn’t want Trowa to have to face the sharpness of Wufei’s all-seeing insight.  That’s what makes the guy so abrasive.  Hell, for Wufei, words truly were a weapon and he used them well.  If he had something harsh to say, Trowa didn’t need to hear it.  Especially if it was something both harsh _and_ relevant.

Swinging my pass card around on its cord, I whistled while I moseyed my way down the hall to Wufei’s apartment.  He didn’t answer the bell, though, not even when I leaned on it for a whole minute and then started buzzing out Christmas tunes.  Hm.  Even if he were in the shower, he would’ve heard that and decided that I deserved to die.  He must still be meditating.

I boogied down to the temple.   The temple wasn’t the only thing on the third floor, of course.  There was a Japanese tea room which I’ve never had more than zero interest in.  There was also a library.  No Internet access, of course, but they had both real and electronic books.  I’d bumped into Trowa among the stacks once or twice before.  In fact, I’d once caught him sunk down to his chin in a poofy beanbag thing with his nose stuck in a copy of Walter Farley’s _The Black Stallion_.

What is it with that guy and animals?

Hell, if we were ever allowed out of this glorified ice cube tray, I guess it’d come up.  No point in asking about it now when we’re not even allowed a pet flea.  Although, if Trowa did have one of those, I’m pretty sure he could train it to fly a Gundam.

And yes, I’d so pay to see that.

The third floor was utterly silent and I automatically quieted my footsteps in deference to it.  I crept along the hall toward the wall of sliding doors along the front of the temple.  Good thing I had, too, because the door on the far right was open and, seated upon the tatami mat in the center of the room beyond, was Wufei.  He wore his wartime whites, which probably symbolized a mind free of distracting shit like comic books and girls, and he knelt on his knees with his bare feet crossed one over the other beneath him.  He was, in two words or less, perfectly serene.  Hell, I wasn’t even sure if he was breathing.  And then I remembered that time on the Lunar Base when our captors had shut off the oxygen to our cell and how he’d just freakin’ meditated himself down to something like three breaths a minute.

The guy was impressive.  In more ways than the aforementioned verbal ninja smack attack.

I leaned into the room and debated how best to take my boots off soundlessly.

Despite being in Undetectable Mode, Wufei still called me out long before the urge to pounce became overwhelming.  “Took you long enough,” he informed me.

“Trowa might agree with you there,” I retorted, feeling a bit evil.  “The man’s got a serious case of unresolved sexual tension.”

Wufei didn’t dignify that with a response.  Somehow I wasn’t surprised.

“So,” I began again.  “Let’s have it.  Heero and Quatre have both said their piece.”

He snorted softly.  “And you’ve made the trip down here to deliver a pound of flesh?”

Had I?  Wait.  This is what Wufei does.  He has a PhD in Mindfuckery.  “Forget it then, man,” I replied, turning to go.

“Life is very fragile, Maxwell,” I heard him say softly.  I didn’t turn around and look at him again.  I just waited and braced myself.

“Take care of each other,” he concluded.

And, with that, I released the breath I’d been holding.  “Will do,” I promised and then got my ass the hell outta there.  It wasn’t until I felt the pull of gravity in the elevator as I rode it up to the residential floor that Wufei’s words really hit me.

In marrying Trowa, I was accepting – to some extent – responsibility for his happiness and wellbeing.  And, given what I was pretty sure was gonna happen in the wake of the ceremony and our little addition to public record…

Shit.

I leaned against the wall of the elevator and tried not to throw up.

Damn Wufei .  He hits you where you least expect it every freakin’ time and he doesn’t pull his punches, either.  There’s a reason why I go to so much effort to mock and irritate him during the daylight hours: because even the smallest comment from him has the power to torment you all frickin’ night long until you cry uncle and promise your first born to whatever gods of sleep exist in exchange for an hour of respite from your own thoughts.

Is that the voice of experience, you ask?  No freakin’ comment.  OK?

So, yeah.  I’m not saying I didn’t sleep well that night but, if I hadn’t, at least I would’ve known whose fault it was.

The next morning I was up at the crack of dawn – well, OK, 6:32 but close enough – and I shocked the mocha java outta Bret when I strutted into the lobby of my corporate purgatory across the street.

“I must be hallucinating,” he declared with some small amount of panache, setting down his still-steaming cup of coffee and showily rubbing his eyes.

I help up a finger in a mute demand for him to hold that thought and continued my journey over to the vending machines near the elevator bank.  A card swipe later and I had a bottle of something cold, fizzy, and glowing with neon food coloring to give me a jolt.  I was pretty sure my second wind wouldn’t be making an appearance until something like 9:30 so I’d need all the sugar and caffeine I could get.  Not that I made a habit out of drinking tooth-rot-in-a-bottle, but at least one occasion arose every week in which I deemed the evil a necessity.  Today, I could tell already, was going to be one of those days.

Returning to the lobby reception desk where Bret was still eying me like a man seeing an approaching alien life form, I commenced with my classic Maxwell Lean of Nonchalance against the polished teak.

“So, g’morning an’ all that,” I greeted, popping open the lid on the pop bottle and taking a sip of manly proportions.

“Good morning,” he replied a bit woodenly.  He blinked at me a couple of times and I smiled.

“Got a question for ya, man,” I segued.  Generally speaking, it’s to your advantage to launch an attack while the enemy is still figuratively grabbing for his ass.  “If a guy were gettin’ hitched, who would he see about a change in living arrangements?”

It was fun watching Bret process that.  It almost made up for the hour I’d spent the night before dithering over if it was already too late to drop in on Trowa once more (despite the fact that we’d exchanged our goodnights – rather enthusiastically and wordlessly – on my threshold not an hour earlier).  It also almost made up for the guilt that was nibbling away at my ass regarding the fact that I still hadn’t _told_ Trowa the game plan for getting all five of us the hell outta here for good.  The guy still had no clue as to what he’d signed on for and I was thinking a bit too much of myself if I thought for even a minute that a little nookie from me was gonna make up for it.  I just prayed that, when all was said and done, that the ends would justify the means.

Oh, I was pretty sure Trowa – chameleon that he was – would be OK once the shit hit the fan, but I just could _not_ afford to take the risk of being overheard or spied on.  If I were an artist, this mission would be my masterpiece and there could not be any unveiling prior to it being completed.  If my plans were exposed, that would be the end of it.  We’d probably never have another shot at this.  And, dammit, I didn’t care how badly Q’s puppy dog eyes tugged at my heartstrings, I was _not_ agreeing to spend the rest of my life as a corporate slave _again._   Death first, I say.  And since I was 99.9% sure Trowa felt the same, the guilt backed off and started sniffing around for a fire hydrant to piss on.

I took another sip of unnaturally flavored citrus-something carbonated whatever and waited for Bret to get all his ducks in a row.

“Is that a hypothetical question, Mr. Maxwell?” he finally inquired.

I gave him my-just-between-us-guys grin.  “Come this Sunday it won’t be.”

He blinked again and then rallied with a heartfelt-sounding, “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.  So… who do I gotta see about gettin’ a place for two?”

“I’ll check,” he offered eagerly enough and I lounged as he punched the button for the outside line and got on the horn.  Well, I guess it _looked_ like I was lounging.  I wasn’t of course.  Microtransmitters don’t plant themselves, y’know.

I fished the innocuous-looking device from my pants pocket.  Until this morning, I’d been keeping it and the data it contained hidden in a concealed compartment in the heel of my boot.  Hence my love for my boots. 

God bless Howard.  He totally set me up for this day when he figured out where things were headed.  I’m pretty sure he’s got a soft spot for the five of us, given all the trouble he’d gone to back then to set things up for our eventual escape.  The email code he was using to spam me with updates via the WEI Charitable Works inbox was new and completely different from our wartime encryption.  Another helpful item was this microtransmitter on which I’d stored the compound’s layout schematics and security system specs.  Five minutes after Quatre had told us his plan to keep us out of prison for life, I’d scouted the sites we’d likely be sent to.  I’d known we wouldn’t end up on the colonies.  Too much room for mischief there what with the five of us being trained to within an inch of our lives (literally) on how to hack and crack every electronic system in the known universe.  No, they couldn’t seal us up on a colony that we might one day take over.  Hell, thirteen minutes with the colony database and we’d be freakin’ _kings_ in space.  They’d have to get Zechs to blast up the whole colony.  Pretty sure he’d do it, too.  Psycho bastard.

But no, there’d been no colony life for us.  Unsurprisingly, they’d sent us to Earth.  Somewhere remote.  This and three other WEI installations had fit the bill.  I’d hacked and downloaded everything on each of them and saved them on this nice, handy-dandy microtransmitter.  Now all I had to do was clamp it on an outside line and the data would be blasted off to some old, wartime contacts.  One of which – namely, Howard – was now in a position to supply the logistics needed for an extraction.

Yeah, Howard probably already had all the building schematics and shit, but what he didn’t have was a sign from someone on the inside that they were willing to break out.  That was the key.  Given the guys Howard was currently in bed with (and wasn’t _that_ a helluva visual!), he’d have to prove we wanted out before they risked an assault.  But I was pretty sure it was a risk they’d deem worth taking if they thought they could get the immediate cooperation of at least one former Gundam pilot.

The trick, though, was I couldn’t let the defector be identified, not if I wanted to get all five of us out.  If they figured out that I’d sent the message, then they’d only take me, which wouldn’t do a whole shit-lotta good for the _rest_ of my plan.

So, today I implemented phase one, using a semi-public phone.  With all the signal hopping my message was programmed to do, it’d take a whole lotta computing to track it to either its source or destination and by the time someone found this little gizmo attached to the phone line, I was planning on not being anywhere near here.

So, when Bret got on the phone, I dangled my hands over the edge of the desk near the back of the device and, using the day-glo pop bottle as cover, I clipped the tiny, black wire cuff to the equally black phone cord.  The needle-like metal contact on the inside of the microtransmitter slid into the rubbery sheathe of the cord and tapped into the metal wires.

I was in.

And as Bret was currently using an outside line to talk to someone in HQ, that meant my little bundle of joy was already on its way.  I figured it’d take the better part of three days for Howard to scramble the jets – one for decoding and tracing the message, another for blowing hot air and kissing ass, and a third for actual logistics to be sorted – so I calculated a comfortable four-day window before our “rescue.”  Howard would still need a diversion in order to get into the compound and _that’s_ why I needed a cozy honeymoon hut for two.

As Bret hung up the phone, I asked, “So what did the _grande guajolotes_ say?”

He gave me a thumbs-up.  “Security has to reissue you and your spouse new pass cards and key them to one of the empty suites.”

“Ah.  So you need the name of my fiancé, huh?”

“That’s the general idea.”

“Trowa Barton,” I answered with a twinge of anticipation, wondering how that was going to go over with good ol’ Bret.

He gave me another blink, glanced at the braid of hair snaking over my shoulder, and nodded.  Now generally, I like Bret.  As I mentioned before, he’s got a sense of humor to go with the Taser in his sidearm holster.  A plus in anyone’s book.  But I had to restrain myself from clocking him for that little gesture.  Just because a guy’s got long hair doesn’t mean shit when it comes to his sexual orientation.  I had to let him think it did, though.  Running around and screaming “I’m straaaaaight!” at the top of my lungs wasn’t gonna be terribly productive.

Besides, I wasn’t so sure I _was_ straight when it came to Trowa “The Kiss Master” Barton.  I took another sip of pop instead of fidgeting guiltily.

Bret continued, “I’ll let security know.”

“So we can expect a visit later?” I checked.

“Highly likely,” he conferred.

“Right-o, I guess that means I have time for my cornflakes after all.”  I sauntered over to the door, tossing a wave over my shoulder.  I considered heading upstairs, but I knew I’d just be resisting the urge to ring Trowa’s bell.  (In more ways than one.  Heh.)  And come this time Monday morning, we were probably going to be getting our fill of getting in each other’s way if we were cohabiting by that time, so I detoured to the cafeteria.

The coffee was perking and it smelled fresh, so I ditched the partially drunk bottle of fizz and fetched something decent to drug myself with.  I then found myself some company.  Heero was ensconced in a chair at a table that was near the door but shielded from immediate discovery by people entering.  Typical.  I plunked my tray down across from his sweating water bottle and empty dishes.

“You’re sitting in Trowa’s chair,” Heero informed me.

“He’s not using it,” I pointed out.  “Besides, when he gets here, he can have mine.”

Heero blinked at me, clearly not amused.  “You do not have a usual chair at this table.”

I patted my thigh.  “Seat transference,” I explained and grinned as Heero got it.

“I am not going to have a conversation with someone sitting on your lap.”

“Huh.  That’s a first,” I remarked.  “You’ve never explained _why_ you’re not going to talk to someone.”

He grunted.

It was nice baiting Heero.  Hell, it was even nice having a little heat of irritation back in his glare, but we didn’t have much to talk about, me and him.  We worked well together when we had a common objective, but small talk?  Not so much.

Luckily, at that precise moment, guess who showed up?

“Hey!” I crowed, craning my neck over backwards to greet the owner of the silent yet intent gaze I could feel on the back of my head.  I happily whipped out my biggest, moronic grin at the sight of Trowa regarding me from the doorway.

“Hey,” he replied softly, an understated smile dancing upon his lips.  “You’re in my chair.”

“I’m _saving_ your chair,” I corrected with a wink.

He stepped forward and, dropping a kiss on my forehead, remarked, “How lucky I am to have such a considerate man for a fiancé.”

He went to fetch some sustenance, leaving me awkwardly draped all over the damn place, grinning like a _true_ idiot now and wrestling with the suddenly panicking hive of bees buzzing through my veins.  Damn, but the man had an amazing talent for making shampoo and soap smell _damn_ fine.

Untwisting myself from over the back of the chair, I sat forward and met Heero’s contemplative gaze.  There was something in his eyes that was dark.  Something I’d say could almost be called protective.

“So you’re bi?” he asked me and it was just as well I hadn’t started in on my cereal because I probably would have choke-coughed it all back out and splattered him.  I enjoyed breathing sans the pain of cracked ribs too much to actually do such a thing (and I’m pretty sure Heero would crack one or two of them for me in retaliation for being cornflaked on), but what a fantastic mental image I had pirouetting through my head!

“Er, looks that way,” I hedged.  As uncomfortable as it was to admit, Trowa did things to my libido that no one else in my (admittedly limited) experience had ever managed.

“Have you asked Trowa about his preferences?”

Um, no.  Obviously I hadn’t.  In the grand scheme of the mission, it hadn’t been all that important.  Still wasn’t, as a matter of fact.  It ain’t pretty, but that’s the deal: Trowa’s sexual preferences were need-to-know and, in order to get us the hell outta here, I didn’t need to know.

“He hasn’t made a secret out of it,” I temporized again.

“Dammit, Duo,” Heero growled softly.  His gaze darted off in the direction of the coffee station which I took to mean that Trowa was already heading back this way.  I decided to cut to the heart of the issue.

“Look, man.  I dunno why this has your ass all a-twitch now, but when I get up there on Sunday and say my vows, I’m gonna be making Trowa what amounts to one helluva promise.”  I gave Heero a hard look.  “You _know_ I keep my promises.”

“I know,” he growled unhappily, his voice trailing off and I braced myself for the inevitable “ _but…”_

“That’s enough,” Trowa said calmly, returning to the table and cutting through our staring contest.

Amazingly, Heero actually gave him a belligerent glare.  Trowa didn’t even meet it as he replied, “I’m a big boy.  I know what I’m doing.”

Well, hello, Guilt!  Welcome back!  Scone?

To hide the restless shifting of my guilty conscience, I hefted my ass outta Trowa’s usual chair and, borrowing a chair from the neighboring table, I plunked myself down on his left.  Hell, not only was I intruding on Heero and Trowa’s breakfast club, but there again was that annoying reminder that I was keeping Trowa in the dark about this whole mission.  Having been there and done that only fifteen minutes ago, I focused on shoveling calories into my gullet and getting the hell outta there.

Trowa, apparently, had other ideas.  He actually reached over and pulled the bowl out from under my spoon with a soft, “Where’s the fire?”

For once, it wasn’t in my pants, thank God, so I could reply with a wry grin.  “T-minus thirty seconds unless Heero tones it down from incinerate to broil.”

Trowa hummed and damned if he didn’t give Heero a _look_ right back.  “Knock it off, Yuy.”

The glare Heero gave him in response to that promised that Words would be exchanged later.  Words of the epic and possibly God-of-Genesis variety.  I experienced a weird moment of pride in response to the thought that Trowa could handle whatever Heero was intending to throw at him.  I’m not saying Trowa’s the atheist to Heero’s One God in that situation, but he just has this unruffle-able calm.  I mean, I _could_ offer to abduct Tro and hide him from the Wrath of Heero, but… nah.  I’d rather cheer from the sidelines.

“Duo?” I glanced up as Quatre strolled through the door, Wufei just a half step behind him.

“Yo!”

“But… it’s seven o’clock in the morning.”  The poor guy seemed completely befuddled.

“That it is,” I gravely concurred, lifting my coffee cup for a gulp.

With the arrival of the others, Heero seemed to deflate and Trowa relaxed.  It was actually kinda nice having breakfast with everyone.  Although even this wouldn’t be motivation enough to get me to roll my ass outta bed at 6:30 a.m. every day but, then again, it wasn’t as if we’d all be here that much longer, anyway.

Wufei called my cereal dog food and I called his bowl of rice-in-tea baby puke.  Quatre pretended we were behaving ourselves and mentioned something about helping Trowa and I get new suits on Saturday.  I kicked Heero under the table for the hell of it and sneakily rubbed my knee against the side of Trowa’s thigh.

Fun times.  Fun times.  All made possible thanks to copious amounts of caffeine.  Bhoo yeah.

Heading across the street to start the workday was not nearly as entertaining and I had to stop transferring the lint from my suit jacket – pinch-of-fluff by pinch-of-fluff – to Quatre’s pristine clothing in order to tell Trowa to expect some sort of interaction with the security golems soon.

“They’re gonna wanna confirm our request for shared living quarters,” I obligingly explained in response to that expectantly-lifted-single-brow thing he does instead of actually bothering to cough up a few words.  Christ.  I wasn’t sure how I ought to feel about the fact that, at some point, Trowa had trained me to answer his nonverbal cues.  Maybe he _did_ have a pet flea.  A flea named Duo Maxwell.

At least I was an attentive flea.  I answered all his unuttered questions, walked closer to him than I did to the others and just generally did that couples thing where you _know_ two people are a unit even though they’re not in physical contact with each other.

I nodded to Bret and he gave me another thumbs-up.  I guess things would be moving ahead today, then.  That was a relief.

The elevator ride was a bit of a crush that could have soured my mood in less than two seconds flat, but I used it to my advantage, taking half a step back until I was pretty much leaning my back against Trowa’s chest.  I felt his hand on my waist and I had to fiddle with my necktie to distract myself from, um, whatever.  Yeah, was it suddenly hot in the elevator or was it just me?  Couldn’t be me.  I just wasn’t used to riding it at full capacity this early in the morning.  Twenty people in an enclosed space generate a lot of body heat.  No, seriously.

Ahem.  Anyway…

Trowa walked me to my cubicle, brushing a hand down my arm as he promised in a soft voice that he’d see me at lunchtime.  Of course, I argued back.

“Not unless I see you first.”  I winked.  He grinned.  And then I watched him make his way toward the closet au chems.

This was probably the first time I’d sat my ass down in my chair on time since, maybe, the second week of our lease on life-as-public-servants.  My boss clearly didn’t know what to make of it, which was good for a moment or two’s amusement.  Sure, I booted up the computer and stared at the company charity division’s inbox for a bit, but mostly I was wondering how the whole security thing would play out.

In the end, it was kinda disappointing.  A pencil pusher from HR stopped by my cube and thrust a small tower of documents at me.

“New residential quarters request forms,” he explained before geeking himself back to his workstation.

I glared at the forms.  And here I’d been imagining a glorious display of ham-handed authority: lugs from security manhandling me down to a detention cell or interrogation room while they grilled me about my relationship with Trowa.  Yeah, there I was, eatin’ the drama of it up with a spoon, and then a dweeb from the troll department swooped in and smothered it… in triplicate.

Thumbing through the papers, I felt my brows rise.  Holy fuck.  If I had to fill all these damn things out by myself, we’d be married and living separately a frickin’ year from now.

I flipped through them and decided, after some painful honestly, that I could probably get most of this done by the end of lunch if I busted my ass and called in some reinforcements.  Right.  Ninmu ryoukai.

As it was closest, the first stop in my troop-mustering circuit was Heero’s desk.  I was a little surprised to find it empty and Quatre’s office door pulled nearly shut.

What the hell?  Since when did Yuy leave his desk in the middle of his shift?  I hadn’t felt an earthquake, didn’t see a hurricane bearing down on us through the windows, couldn’t smell smoke…  Damn.  And here I’d pretty much figured that it’d take a natural disaster to pry his ass outta that chair before noon.

The sound of voices drew my attention toward the almost-closed door.  As nonchalantly as possible, I approached the target on silent feet.

“…clear he doesn’t know.  This is a bad idea,” I could hear Heero growling.

Quatre sighed.  “Even if that’s so, it’s his choice.”

“Moron,” Heero summarized in his usual succinct manner.  “I told him to follow his emotions, not let them lead him around by the nose.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Quatre offered in that rallying tone that never fails to evoke the hell-yes-we-can! vibe.  It was practically a genetic response.  And yeah, I knew the story of how Quatre’d won over the Maguanacs, but I’d bet Q had used that tone at some point and – I’m just sayin’ – it couldn’t have hurt.

It didn’t work on Heero, though.  “Talk.”  He snorted.  “It won’t do any good.”

Quatre replied with the ever-sagely remark: “Then we’ll have to let it go and trust it all to work out in the end.”

Heero muttered something in response.  I think I heard the words “train wreck” in there, but I was more interested in making my escape now that it sounded like the conversation was over with and Heero’d be returning to his station momentarily.

I booked it down to the maintenance cubby.

I glanced over my shoulder as I rapped my knuckles on the door and, despite the fact that the angle was wrong and I couldn’t see Heero’s desk from this point in the aisle, I felt adrenaline surge through me at the thought of him scenting my ass-shredding guilt and following after me.  Or maybe my stinging conscience was leaving a blood trail in my wake.

I hadn’t heard any names mentioned, but I figured it had to be me Heero’d been bitching out.  So, my secret plan was not as secret as I’d thought.  What was slightly more surprising was that they seemed to think that Trowa hadn’t figured it out yet.  I guess he really was just that good an actor.

My salvation arrived with the opening of the door and I lunged into the room.  It was a tight fit.  I kicked a plastic bucket, stumbled against Trowa, and then nudged the door shut behind me with the heel of my useless dress shoe.  I placed my hands – well, my free hand and the fistful of mind-numbing forms – against Trowa’s upper arms, intending to lever myself off of him.

That’s what I intended.  Didn’t quite happen that way, though.

“Duo?”

“Um… surprise!” I chirped, rattling a soft chuckle loose from him.  I tried not to notice how the sound somehow made his presence seem, I dunno, warmer… better… more freakin’ _everything?_

“And it’s not even my birthday.”

Which reminded me…  “When is that, by the way?  I’ve got to write it down in triple-triplated-triplicate a couple thousand times.”

“No idea,” he murmured, his hands settling on my hips.  “It says February 3rd, After Colony 179 on my official ID.”

“I’ll use that, then.” 

At this point, I would have reached for the pen clipped to my jacket lapel and jotted it down if Trowa hadn’t massaged my sides through three layers of fabric and purred, “Triplicate with care.”

And, oh man, when he used that growly whisper, my hormones stood at attention.  The word “triplicate” was not supposed to sound like “fornicate”… was it?

“Um…”  That’s as far as I got before I realized this was so not the moment for talking.  He was in my space or I was in his – there was no way to objectively determine which was the case – and his mouth was brushing mine.  Fireworks whizzed and burst in my blood vessels as I inhaled and the scent of him made me remember his taste and damn but I _wanted…!_

The next thing I knew, his tongue was in my mouth and he was pressing me back against the door.  I dimly heard the rustle of pages as I wound my arms around his neck.  I was 99% sure that security didn’t have the closet bugged, but it was the very last thing on my mind.  To hell with giving people a free show.  I just freakin’ did not care.

It boggled my mind that Trowa was firing up each and every booster rocket I had and, as the kiss deepened, rocked and rolled, I was discovering just how populated my personal arsenal seemed to be.

Eventually, I just had to—

“Stop!” I hissed.  Despite that wholehearted assertion, I found my free hand clutching his shirt which I was rather rudely tugging up and out of the waistband of his company-issued khakis.  A band of naturally tanned skin met my gaze and I had to close my eyes and _focus_ on releasing his clothes.

“Sorry,” I muttered, not quite sure of what else I could say.

He hummed at me.  I was starting to think it was the standard Trowa purr for acknowledging the fact that I’d said something either too stupid to dignify with a response or something that was blatantly obvious.  Or… wait.  Weren’t those two pretty much interchangeable?

“I’m not,” he finally informed me, rubbing his chin along the edge of my jaw.  “Accost me in a closet anytime.”

Oh, God.  I was totally _in the closet_ with him.  I bit down on a slightly hysterical giggle.

“Well,” I rallied, “you were taking too long to waylay me.”

“Impatient as well as prone to a short attention span,” he summarized.  He could have pretended to sound more put out about it, but I was kinda glad he didn’t.  He actually kinda made it sound like my character flaws were about five-and-a-half kinds of awesome.

“And wimpy in the face of bureaucratic paperwork,” I added, rustling the slightly crumpled forms which I’d somehow _not_ dropped in the tussle.

Trowa turned his attention to them and flipped through the sheaf with a few graceful flicks of his long fingers.

Shit.  What the hell was wrong with me?  I was noticing the man’s _fingers_ for Christ’s sake!

“Ah,” he remarked with deceptive blandness.  “Change of residence forms.”  I found myself being the wide-eyed recipient of a very sultry stare.  “I’ll help you fill those out at lunch, shall I?”

“Er, yeah.  Unless you want to be married and living separately for the foreseeable future.”

“Is that an option?” he asked in a carefully neutral tone.

“No.”  It absolutely was not.  I needed to be in a normal residential suite and I needed a partner to be ready to supply a distraction while I tended to the next part of my master plan.  “I need you with me,” I informed him, only belatedly realizing how that could be taken two distinct ways.  The arousal that was pressing mindlessly against the warm, solid heat of his thigh seemed to imply something, er, _not_ mission-related.

I winced in anticipation of Trowa’s oncoming reaction.

To my surprise, he tucked a knuckle under my chin and tilted my face up to his.  He met my gaze and solemnly vowed, “Then that’s what you’ll have.”

There wasn’t a single, solitary iota of sex in his tone, but hearing his words sent a shiver through me nonetheless.  “That’s what I love about you, Tro,” I tried to tease.  My voice came out a bit too thick to manage it, though.  “Your spectacular leaps of faith.”  And the fact that, like a cat, he somehow always managed to land on his feet.

His gaze seemed to soften, although I couldn’t tell ya why it did.  Feeling a little put on the spot now, I crab-scuttled my way sideways into a new topic.  “So, now that I’m here, are you gonna give me a tour or what?”

“Now that you’ve invited yourself in, you mean?” he teased back gamely.

“Hah.  See if I ever surprise you again.”

“Oh, did it sound like I was complaining?”

“Well, since you’ve still got a hand on my ass, I’m guessin’ you weren’t.”

“My hand is not anywhere near your ass.”

“True, but I could tell you were thinking about it.”

“Point,” Trowa conceded.

Smirking, I commenced with a thorough study of the closet and its contents.  I felt my brows arch and my eyes widen as I spotted a very unfriendly blue liquid in a translucent bottle.  I whistled low and long.  “Damn.  Does this building even have proper ventilation for using that shit?”  To my knowledge, it was one of the most corrosive degreasing and cleaning agents known to mankind.

Glancing over his shoulder at the shelf I was currently blinking at, he rolled a shoulder.  “Doubtful.  I’ve never had to use it.”

“Yeah, not much call for scraping up charred plasma around here, huh?”

“But when you put it like that…” he drawled, his tone turning contemplative and suggestive.

I waggled my brows at him and asked in a low, sultry tone to match the look he'd given me not two minutes ago, “Lemme guess.  You’re thinkin’ about gettin’ up close and personal with some blacked gunk now, aren’t ya?”

Trowa groaned softly.  Oddly enough, he made the sound seem both pained and desperately wanting.  “Get your ass out of here, Duo.  There’s too much wood in this room as it is.”

“You’re kicking me out?  That’s cruel, man.  Cruel.”  But I went.  It took a bit of shifting and an instance of stumbling, but we eventually got the door open and I flailed my way into the cube-y aisle.  I didn’t wait around to see Trowa and his mop cart off on the daily wipe down of the break room.  I had forms to mutilate and some petty theft to contemplate.

Oh, yes.  Things were lookin’ up.  And I’m not only talking about the things on the other side of my trouser fly, although that was something to take into account as well.  I scowled slightly as I realized that in a little over 48 hours, I was going to be a married man and the goings-on in my shorts might end up being not only _my_ concern.  As my husband, Trowa was going to have every right to investigate my attraction to him and, thus far, he hadn’t given me any indication of a boundary line in our relationship.

That should have been more worrisome that it actually was.  And the fact that I _wasn’t_ worried actually worried me quite a bit, to be honest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah ha!! In this chapter, we have an appearance by a close cousin of Sunhawk’s Guilt Beast, which lurks throughout her wonderful Heero/Duo Ion Arc. I simply had to pay tribute. Besides, with a past like Duo’s, there’s no way he could escape that lumbering monster.
> 
> Wufei’s breakfast could actually be a Japanese dish called “ochazuke” which is rice, spices and other flavorings like fish or wasabi or pickled plum, in green tea with stuff like nori (dried seaweed) for garnish. I love it. It’s the bestest ever.


	4. Just off the Key of Reason

# Chapter 4: Just off the Key of Reason

_The road outside my house is paved with good intentions; hired a construction crew cuz it’s hell on the engine…_

 

“We kick ass,” I informed my partner in crime as I dated and signed my name to the last document of doom.

With an easy twirl of his fingers, Trowa handed my ballpoint back to me.  “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

Too freakin’ true.  But, what I said was, “Dude, check us out!  It’s like we’re already married.  Here we are, rubbin’ elbows, fillin’ in each other’s blanks.  Pretty soon we’ll, y’know—”

“Be finishing each other’s sentences?” he supplied, his lips twitching into a little smile that was way more endearing than it should have been.

I nodded.  “And sharing the Look.  You know the one, right?”

“The I-know-what-you’re-thinking-and-if-I-agree-to-it-you’ll-owe-me-big-later Look?” he checked.

I guffawed.  “Yeah.  That one.”  I would have said more – a half formed thought about swapping toothbrushes popped into my head – but, just then, Trowa’s stomach let out a _yowl._   It was so loud he actually looked a little embarrassed.  “Heh.  I think you’d better go acquire some provisions.  I’ll hold down the fort.”

“Think you can keep these from escaping in the five minutes of lunchtime that remain to us?” he drawled, indicating the stack of completed forms with a wave of his hand.

“D’you think I should send for reinforcements?”  I made a show of craning my neck to check out the remaining lunchers lingering over the dregs of their coffee.

“You make the call on that one,” he answered, standing.

“What?  Make a decision by myself?  But we’re practically married as it is!”

Trowa actually rolled his eyes at me.  “You’re going to turn into a pig if you keep hamming it up.”

I snorted.  “Come back with a power bar and a better pun, buddy.”

He gave me a salute and strode off, pass card in hand, to raid the vending machine.  As he walked off, I found myself watching him as if the way he filled out his khakis was the most fascinating thing in the world.  It wasn’t.  Totally wasn’t.  I made myself stop looking and, picking up the first form under my hand, I scanned it for uncrossed T’s and undotted I’s.

It was bad enough I was going to hell for all the destruction I’d caused – and worse yet, I’d _enjoyed_ causing it – during the war, but there was no way I was going to hell for being a straight guy who psyched himself into lusting after his friend, comrade, and partner.  I was pretty sure there was a special circle in hell for the kind of mindfuckery I could potentially cause if I didn’t get this weird attraction/reaction thing under control.  I was straight, damn it.  And this was _not_ gonna end well if I somehow let myself believe that I really wanted to do unmentionably naughty things with the guy who was, in essence, my mission backup.

I decided that I deserved a paper cut and started playing with the residence reassignment forms with the intention of giving myself one.  Of course, none of them cooperated.  All their razor sharp edges had been manhandled to a slightly wrinkled landscape of uselessness.

I heard the approaching footsteps an instant before a familiar arm streaked across my field of vision and a warm, slightly rough hand captured my fingers.  “Stop it,” Trowa ordered so softly that, surveillance equipment or no, there was no possible way anyone besides me could have heard him.  I lifted my gaze and was a little startled by the solemn look in his visible green eye.  “If you can’t tell me, then don’t think about it.”

A corner of my mouth kicked up into a grin and a bubble of humor-shaped breath squirted out my nose.  Just don’t think about it.  Yeah, I could do that.

I pulled my hands away from the stack of papers and accepted the energy bar Trowa held out to me.  “Thanks, man.”

He resumed his seat, his knee bumping against my leg and I fought the inclination-born-of-guilt to scoot away.

“So, are you gonna take these over to HR with me and glare the trolls into submission?”

Trowa gave me a long look.  “Wufei is scarier.  Imply that discrimination is involved.”

He had a point.  Nothing motivated Chang better than a perceived injustice.  “Okie dokie.”  I peeled open the wrapper on my, um, lunch and asked between nibbles, “You think we’ll have our new place by Sunday evening?”

“If Wufei has anything to say about it,” Trowa provisioned.

“And, if all else fails, there’s our wingman and Mr. CEO.  Really,” I decided, “it’s in everyone’s best interest to get us settled a.s.a.p.”

We inhaled the vending machine offerings, guzzled a cup of coffee each, and headed back to the office.  I could feel Trowa’s hand on the small of my back as we passed over the break room threshold and I tried really hard not to blush like a tweeny girl.

“Have a good day,” Trowa wished me when we reached the point in the cubicle aisle where we’d usually part ways.  “I’ll stop by your place at six and we’ll go down to dinner?”

“Yeah.  It’s a date,” I acknowledged, earning a tiny, satisfied nod from my fiancé.

So, I was gonna have to brave the HR hoydens Trowa-less.  I was kinda itching for a bit of confrontation since I’d been denied a scene with the security ogres earlier, but facing the trolls was a whole other sort of battle.  One that might not go well for me as my Maxwell Charisma Grin seemed to malfunction every time I entered their territory.  I was starting to think that Trowa’d had a _very_ good point about recruiting Wufei’s assistance.  And it just so happened that, as I passed by Wufei’s desk, the poor guy looked eternally bored.

“Hey, Chang.  You feel like championing a cause?”

“Another one of your charity cases?” he replied flatly, his unblinking gaze focused on his computer screen.

I smiled as winsomely as I could manage but I think a bit of cynicism squeezed its way in.  I hefted the residency change request forms and quipped, “Let’s just call it your wedding present to Trowa and me, eh?”

He looked up and his startled air quickly tornadoed into suspicion.

“I know it’s not as exciting as helping a friend hide a body, but…”

Wufei wasn’t in the habit of rolling his eyes.  I’ve long suspected that he just couldn’t.  Didn’t get the smartass gene or something.  What he did do, however, was heave a gusty sigh and mutely hold out his hand for the paperwork.  “It’ll be signed off on by the end of the day.”

“I love you, man,” I informed him.

Unimpressed, he grunted.   “I did not just hear that.  Be gone, Maxwell.”

And then he strode off with the documents Trowa and I had slaved away over.  I kinda felt bad for whoever was on the receiving end of his march, but… eh what the hell, right?  For the sake of the mission, sacrifices have gotta be made.  It was just too bad I couldn’t hang around and watch the show.  It was bound to be a blockbuster.

I arrived at my desk a whole minute before the afternoon shift was due to begin, startling a double-take out of my boss.  I could tell he was dying to ask me the standard interrogation questions: Who are you and what have you done with my borderline irresponsible and moderately competent employee?  But he didn’t ask which was just as well.  My reply would have consisted of “It’s none of your damn business, pathetic Earthling.”

Pretty sure that would have gotten me in some kind of trouble.  It would have helped make the remainder of the afternoon marginally more interesting, though.

I clicked through another hundred and sixty-two emails before it was finally – at long freakin’ last! – quittin’ time.  Hallelujah for the weekend.  I breezed by Tro’s trove of caustic and poisonous chemicals, wondering if I could catch him with his guard down and goose him on the ass in passing.  He wasn’t even there and his crash cart of cleaners was gone.  It occurred to me then that, in helping me with those forms today, he’d put himself behind schedule and was now staying late to get everything done.

Damn.

I briefly considered hunting him down and offering a hand, but by the time I found him, he’d likely be all done.  I decided to make it up to him another way.  I booked it downstairs and – with a wave to Bret – jaunted across the street and applied my formidable creativity to the meager offerings at the general store.

Ten minutes, a thoughtful scowl, and a card swipe later, I had my purchase tucked in my pocket as I rode the elevator up to my floor.  It only took me a few minutes to downgrade my office wear for a pair of worn jeans and a black, long-sleeved T-shirt so I plunked myself down at my desk, pulled out the little notebook I used for a ledger and jotted down how much of my monthly allowance I’d just spent.  Considering the fact that I hardly ever used said allowance, I’d accumulated a tidy sum over the years.  It still wasn’t much, but it should be enough to cover Sunday’s incurred expenses.  And, if everything went according to plan, I wouldn’t have to worry about exceeding my WEI slave budget ever again.

My doorbell chimed at 5:58 and, grinning, I went to greet my date.

“That was fast,” I remarked as the door slid open.  Trowa stood in the hall, wearing a pair of pale jeans and a blue T-shirt with a light jacket over it.  “When I left, you were still out and about somewhere.”

He seemed pleased that I’d looked for him before I’d blazed a trail back to the residential building.  “I had a word with Quatre.”

“Oh?”  I think I sounded fairly nonchalant even though I was wondering if words had been said concerning the mission I was clearly in the midst of undertaking and which Quatre and Heero seemed to think Trowa was totally clueless about.

Trowa took a step back, making room for me to move into the corridor.  His mouth twitched into a slight smile.  “He wants to take us shopping tomorrow.”

I groaned.  “Fantastic.  He doesn’t actually think he’s going to find tuxes for us downstairs, does he?”  Hell, we were lucky the socks were wool and the shoes were made of real leather.  I didn’t dare ask for more than that.  Most employees could go off-site for a weekend and do their quality shopping elsewhere.  Us five former pilots, however, were pretty much condemned to whatever we could find in the general store.

“He seemed disturbingly optimistic,” Trowa replied and – hell, I’ll be honest – I didn’t even want to imagine an optimistic, shopping-oriented Quatre Raberba Winner.

“Hey,” I said instead, reaching out a hand as we passed his door on the way to the elevator.  “Hold up a minute.  I’ve got something for you.”

He paused, blinking at me.  I pulled the small plastic bag from my pants pocket and handed it to him.  “Sorry ‘bout the wrapping.”

He took it, but didn’t reach inside to see what I’d gotten him.  Instead, he frowned at me slightly, his gaze moving over my expression searchingly.  “You didn’t have to…” he began hesitantly.

“Yeah, but I figured it’s the least I could do.  I mean, you did give up your lunch break today to help me and then I starved you on top of that.”

His smile this time was actually kind of charmed.  “You still didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, yeah, but your fiancé is a pushover.”  There was no denying it at this point.  On this subject, my being straight or slightly-not had no bearing whatsoever.  Trowa was my fiancé and the man deserved a gift from his intended.  I would have felt the same no matter who I’d asked to marry me.  “Just open the bag already, man.”

Still smiling softly, he did.  He then stared at the object within for a long, long moment.  I waited for him to pull it out and, after a moment, he finally did.

“Duo?” he asked, lifting out the braided, brown leather necklace.   It was kinda one of those unisex things with a plastic sports clasp instead of those annoying metal ones that could catch the little hairs on the back of your neck.  It was nice enough all by itself to be a gift.  Each leather cord in the weave was well-tanned and each a slightly different color.  The whole thing had kinda reminded me of my braid, which was why I’d chosen it.  I’d wanted to give Trowa a reminder of me to keep with him, no matter what might happen.  Hopefully nothing unexpected, but you just never knew.

The part that was giving him the most trouble was the stone charm I’d gotten to go on the necklace.  The downstairs shop has had a variety of the damn things on display for as long as I could remember.  It’d always seemed plain ridiculous to have something so obviously trendy in stock.  As far as I knew, it was only kids who were still looking for a theme song or a catchy motto to define their lives that cared about themed jewelry, but in this case it was actually just what I needed. 

I’d skipped over rose quartz pieces that had read “Love” and discarded large, jade beads that proclaimed “Life”.  The tiger’s eye “Success” and the “Infinity” carved onto some blue stone had also been left untouched.  I’d gone for the one word that defined us, both now and in the future.  The charm I’d chosen was a wide ring of onyx upon which a single word had been etched: _Trust._

It was true that I trusted Trowa; I _was trusting_ him.  In the future, I would need his trust in me as it was still simply too dangerous for me to explain what I was preparing to do.  I needed him to know that I was not going to leave him behind, no matter what.

Trowa shifted his grasp, rolling the accessory over his fingers and drawing my attention to the fact that I still hadn’t answered his unasked question.  I stepped into his space and he permitted it, dropping the arm between us to accommodate me.  I slid a hand around the back of his neck, closing my eyes as I felt the soft strands of his short hair brush my knuckles.  I took a deep breath and again his scent made my body hum with contained energy.  I opened my eyes, lifted my face to his, and whispered against his mouth, “I mean it.”

And then I kissed him.  It wasn’t as passionate as the others we’d shared, but it was more soul-baring.  My mouth moved over his, my lips gentle but firm.  I dared only a taste of him with my tongue and I felt him shiver when I dipped just past his lips.  I was asking for nothing with this kiss; I was giving.  If he could find it in himself to keep trusting me, I’d give him a new future.

I had no idea if he sensed this undercurrent in the kiss or – if he did – if he interpreted it as I intended.  I knew only that he leaned into me, and that would have to be answer enough.  We couldn’t exactly discuss it.  Not here and not now.

“Help me put it on,” he requested quietly, handing the necklace to me.  He held still as I positioned it around his neck and clipped it in place.

“In or out?” I asked, indicating what I meant with a tap of my fingers against the charm.

“Out,” he replied and I left it sitting atop his t-shirt collar for any and all to see.  It gave me a strange, little, prideful jolt to have it there.

No one commented on it when we joined the others for dinner downstairs although I know for a fact that they all noticed it.  They might not have been close enough to read the etching on the onyx, but they had to guess – from the color alone and my affinity for black – that it had been a gift from me.

I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that, honestly, now that I was here, sitting in a group of my closest friends, all of us knowing that I’d bought something specifically for one of them.  It was…  Hell, it was just weird.  I swallowed a sigh and did my best to resign myself to feeling awkward until this whole thing was over with.  I’d deal with it later.

Yes, life _does_ come with a snooze button and I hit it often.

“Duo,” Quatre said as everyone continued _not_ mentioning Trowa’s new accessory, “I spoke with the manager in the shop here and he thinks he may have something nice in your size.  It’s not a tuxedo or an Armani, but—”

I snorted.  “Damn.  You are bound and determined to get me to blow all our honeymoon money on the wedding!”

Wufei grunted.  “Where were you planning on going, Maxwell?  To a lovely place in your imagination?”

“Why not?” I retorted.  “The weather’s nice there.”

“Nicer in Las Vegas,” Trowa contributed.

“Said like a true gambler,” Heero intoned.

A moment of silence seemed to mute the entire table.  Wondering what the hell Heero’s problem was but knowing better than to kill the mood and ask, I cleared my throat and dived for a change of subject.  “Better a gambler than a sadist.”  This last bit I directed at Quatre, pointing my spork at him.  “I told you I had the old-new-borrowed-an’-blue shit covered, man.  What gives?”

As Quatre fidgeted, Heero explained, “He’s doing it because he can’t throw you an actual bachelor party.”

I glanced at Trowa.  “For which of us?”

“Does it matter?” Heero retorted.

“Um…”  I guess he had a point.  But then another thought occurred to me.  “Oh, wait.  I get it.  Q’s gonna torture us with a day of dusty fitting rooms and uncomfortable suits—”  And my personal nemesis, Static Cling (thanks to my mane of legendary proportions).  “—while you and Wufei decorate and get everything ready for the surprise party later, right?”

Trowa poked me in the ribs with his elbow and hissed, sotto voce, “Shh.  You’re ruining it.”

“Whoops.”

Wufei joined the fray with a glare directed at Trowa.  “Come tomorrow night, when Maxwell here finds out there _is_ no party, you’re going to have to deal with him.”

Despite the warning, Trowa announced, “Gladly.”

The little smile playing on his lips really made me wonder exactly how he thought he was going to distract me from such a monumental disappointment.  I was pretty sure that if I asked nicely, he’d tell me… I just wasn’t all that thrilled about him telling me in front of the guys.  Y’know, just in case it involved an invasion of personal space.  Which – I don’t have to remind y’all – I still had a case of chronically mixed feelings over.

That didn’t stop me from tugging Trowa over to my doorway when Heero wandered off to the gym, Wufei marched off to meditate, and Quatre informed us that he had some work to get done if he was going to hold our hands during the shopping trip we’d apparently agreed to endure tomorrow.  I didn’t say anything as I swiped and scanned, but once I had him in my room and the door slid shut, I informed him, “I’m tired of saying goodnight to you in the damn hall.”

Yesterday, he might have taken that as an invitation to lay one on me.  Tonight, however, his hand rose and briefly touched the braided cord around his neck.  “I know.”

Both of us deliberately ignored the red light on the room’s security camera above us.  Yeah, someone was probably watching us, but I told myself I didn’t care.  They weren’t in the room with us.  That was as much privacy as we could expect until we got our own place.  I was 90% certain that the cameras and microphones in our shared apartment wouldn’t be set to record our every move.  Maybe if we had a third person over, but not just the two of us.  I mean, would they really spy on a married couple?  That’d be just plain sick, in my opinion.

At the moment, there was nothing I could do about being observed on a monitor somewhere in the building across the street, but I reminded myself that our days _here_ were numbered.

I stepped forward and slid my arms around Trowa’s waist.  He leaned his head against mine, his chin resting on my shoulder.  It felt kinda weird to just stand there and hug another person, but it was kind of nice, too.  Sort of like pulling on a jacket still warm from the clothes dryer… but better.

Trowa’s hands found their way up my arms, over my shoulders, and then his fingers tunneled gently into my hair.  “Two more days,” he whispered.  He could have made it a question or an observation.  Instead, it sounded like a vow.

“Yeah.  And then you won’t be able to get rid of me.”

He nuzzled my ear before giving me a playful nip.  “Promise?”

I almost did.  I almost told him, “Absolutely.”  But I didn’t.  After this was all over with, he’d want a divorce and, despite the ceremony taking place in a Catholic chapel and being performed by a Catholic priest, it _was_ only a civil service.  Divorce was totally an option for us.  I didn’t want to make a promise Trowa was likely to hope I’d break.  Especially if he was just joking around with me about it.

Besides, did I really want to promise him something close to _forever?_

“Hey now,” I teased back, leaning away to study his expression, “I’m trying my damnedest to hold onto some of the mystery here.”

“Mission accomplished,” he replied, his thumbs stirring against the skin behind my ears.  “You are very mysterious.”

“Awesome.”  I couldn’t help it; I grinned.

Trowa’s gaze dropped to my mouth and, in the next moment, his lips were against mine and he was nuzzling against my smile which quickly faded and softened in response.  This kiss was warm, unhurried, and gentle.  It made my toes tingle and my fingers curl into the fabric of his T-shirt at the small of his back.  He shifted closer and I became hyper-aware of the fact that my bed was just six steps beyond.

I forced myself to not rub against him like a cat.

“Hey,” I murmured, my voice husky as I met his heated gaze.  “On Sunday – the ceremony – do you want to, y’know, use different vows?  Like, say your own or something?”  God.  Check me out.  I’m so suave and shit.

He considered the option as he stared at me.  His hands were still buried in my hair and his chest was only a breath away from mine and, damn, I could feel the heat freakin’ _radiating_ off of him.  I tried not to fidget with the clothing I was grasping.  I’d already tried to peel his clothes off once today.  I needed to pace myself here.

“No,” he finally answered and I wasn’t surprised.  Despite our plans on Sunday and my hopes for freedom, the future was still uncertain.  Best not complicate things.  “You?” he checked.

I lowered my gaze to the onyx charm displayed just below his T-shirt-covered collarbone.  “I’ve already said it.”

This time, when I looked up, I was the one to kiss _him._   And this was not a nice, honey-I’m-home kind of kiss.  It was a Sunday-is-too-freakin’-far-away kiss.  Whatever possessed me to back him up against the door and just _dominate_ his mouth, I didn’t know.  I just really, really needed him to _get_ me, to _know_ I was there with him, that we were in this _together._   Unclear, but that was the closest I could come to explaining it.

He pulled me closer.  It was blissful and – for a good five minutes – I lost myself in him.  That was what startled me back to my senses, actually.  My eyes opened and I saw his expression as I licked once more at his reddened lips.  The sight of his eyes closed and face utterly relaxed and trusting nearly undid me.  Literally.  I was that close to collapsing in a jumbled heap.  How could I want him and yet know that I shouldn’t?  How could I _need_ to have him this close when I was pretty sure neither one of us would want to make our marriage last the rest of our lives?

I was so confused it felt like a strong breeze could scatter all my shifting, vibrating, grinding pieces.  Shit.  It felt like I was being held together with nuthin’ but grit and cobwebs.

“Are you OK?” I rasped, noting he’d slumped a bit against the door.  I cupped his cheek in my hand and did that restlessly caressing thumb thing that he’d often done to me.  For a moment, it looked like he might actually nuzzle into my palm with a sigh.  But then his eyes opened and he straightened.

“Are you?” he asked instead and his insight was almost frightening.

The best I could manage was a smile and a nod.  It wasn’t much, but he took it.  He pressed a simple kiss to the corner of my mouth and then he left.  After the door slid closed between us, I let my head fall forward until it banged into the hard surface.

Damn.  Trowa.  Damn damn damn.

That was pretty much the only thought in my head for the rest of the night.  And it was a long damn night.

That’s my excuse for why Quatre’s nonchalantly-asked, uber-personal question got past my defenses the following afternoon.  “So, the proposal… who asked whom?”

I was still kinda groggy and grumpy since I’d missed breakfast and my morning cup of coffee.  I might have been a snarling feed-me-now beast if Trowa hadn’t leaned on the bell outside my door at 10:30 this morning, bearing gifts.

“Here,” he’d said, passing me a protein bar.  “You missed waffles this morning.”

“With blueberries?” I’d masochistically pressed.

God, I’d practically kill for blueberry waffles.  I was pretty sure Trowa had noticed this over the years, so I couldn’t tell if he was being honest or sparing my feelings when he replied, “Bananas.  If there’d been blueberries, I would have come up and fetched you.”

“Of course you would have,” I’d agreed on a yawn.

He’d smiled and leaned forward to kiss my temple.  “Eat your power bar and go back to bed.  We still have two hours before Quatre tortures us.”

“Oh, how you motivate me.”

Trowa had smirked and I’d gone the hell back to bed.  Dozing is shockingly easy when your stomach isn’t trying to wrap itself around your internal organs for something to digest.

It was now _later,_ of course, and I was moodily combing through the racks.  Trowa, being the more cooperative of the two of us, was the first one in the fitting room.  That didn’t stop Quatre from piling more items over his own arm for the poor guy to struggle into.  Although, to be fair, I doubted Trowa struggled with new clothes the way normal people did.  I was engaged to the most poised man on Earth and the colonies.  Of course he didn’t wrestle about in the fitting room, didn’t bang his elbow on the mirror or step on his own discarded shoes.

I tried really hard to hate him for that.

“Duo?”

“Huh?”  I jerked my head up and blinked at Quatre until my short term memory woke up and cycled his question back around to me.  “Oh.  The proposal.  Right, well.  I asked him up on the roof.  Had a change of perspective, I guess.”

“You _guess?”_ he teased, looking both amused and exasperated.

“Go easy, man,” I objected.  “I’m operating at only 20% intellectual capacity today.”

“Should have bought him a cola,” Trowa interjected and I turned to take a gander at the duds he was currently modeling.  Damn, but he looked _good_ in a suit.  That suit in particular was very nice.  Tailored like it had been made for him.  Or, more likely, he’d simply been made to wear suits well.  In another life, Trowa might have been a professional model instead of a freedom-fighter-and-part-time-lion-tamer-turned-corporate-offices-janitor.

“Wow,” my sluggish brain managed to produce.  “Gentlemen, I think we have a winner.”  Before I could glance at Quatre and tack on “no pun intended” – although I heard Trowa’s breathy chuckle so I knew he’d gotten it – the blonde wonder was tossing the items draped over his arm at me and stalking toward his target.

“Now don’t be so hasty, Duo.  We’ve still got a very nice navy there that—”

I tuned out Quatre and, meeting Trowa’s eyes, informed the public in general.  “I’d take ‘im as is.”

“As is?” Trowa repeated and I think that was right about when Quatre said something about lapel hankies and disappeared around a rack of sport jackets.  “A poor, shoeless man in a new suit?”

I glanced down and, sure enough, he was only wearing some white tube socks.  “Did they mutiny?” I inquired of his missing footwear.

“Got tired of tripping over the damn things.  They’re sitting by the door.”

Before I could do more that choke on my own chortle, Quatre was back with an assortment of fancy handkerchiefs which he proceeded to tuck, one by one, into Trowa’s empty lapel pocket and then step back and give the poor guy the squint treatment.

“Lemme know if you need backup,” I drawled, slumping onto a bench meant for trying on shoes, the pile of yet-to-be-tried-on suit trappings balanced on my knees.  I folded my arms and laid my head down on my impromptu pillow.

I probably would have gone ahead and caught some Z’s if anyone else were getting poked and prodded by Quatre Raberba Winner.  For some reason, I just couldn’t take my eyes off of Trowa.  It didn’t matter if he was lifting his arms so Quatre could expertly tuck in his dress shirt or turning in a circle to show off the cut of his jacket or rolling his eyes as Quatre crouched down to check the length of the trouser legs.  I had my eyes – bloodshot to hell, I’m sure – on Trowa the whole damn time.

I grinned and gave my thumbs up when either Trowa or Quatre glanced in my direction.  I was surprised by how fun it was watching Quatre nit-pick at a tolerant but eye-rolling and sigh-heaving Trowa.  Can you blame me for thinking there might have been something there between them?  Only now could I clearly see that it was more of a brothering that they had rather than, um, what Trowa and I seemed to have.  Whatever that was.

Quatre finally turned Trowa in my direction and demanded, “All right, Duo.  We’re ready for your verdict.”

 _“More_ than ready,” Trowa muttered.

I felt my grin stretch until I thought my cheeks were gonna cramp up.  “I dunno, Tro.  You look way too classy for a guy like me.  I’m a little afraid you’re gonna say you _don’t_ on Sunday instead of ‘ _I do.’”_

Clearly satisfied with himself, Quatre bustled about returning the unchosen items back to the racks.  I was busy lounging on my bench, looking Trowa up and down.  I was also enjoying the fact that he was clearly letting me.  When Quatre disappeared from view for a moment, I found myself being stalked as Trowa prowled closer.

My mouth went dry as he stopped in front of me, braced his arms on the shoe displays on either side of me and leaned down.  “Time to get off your throne now, your highness.  It’s your turn next.”

I groaned and I wasn’t entirely sure that the sound was 100% dread.  “Hide me.  I’ll pay you.”

His knowing smile widened.  “Maybe I’m not interested in money.”

A former merc not interested in money?  Well, I guess that’s why he’d left the business, eh?

“What _are_ you interested in?” I flirted back.

I watched as he lifted one hand from the wooden racks and slowly lowered it to the center of my chest.  His fingertips sought out and brushed the gold cross I always wore beneath my shirt.  “If you know of a good catholic boy…”  He gave me a sultry look that invited me to fill in the blanks.

I opened my mouth—

“Duo!  I’ve got something for you to try on.  How do you feel about lavender?”

I snorted as Quatre bulldozed his way back into view with a damn mountain of clothes in his arms.  Muhammad moving the mountain, in-frickin’-deed.  “No freakin’ way,” I retorted and, frowning thoughtfully, Quatre zoomed off again to find an alternative.

As Trowa moved to stand up, I caught hold of his fancy, green necktie-cravat thing and held him in place.  “Hypothetically speaking, just what would you do with a good catholic boy if you had him?”

He leaned down and I lifted my face to his and let him kiss me right there in the middle of the damn men’s department.  “Only good things,” he concluded softly.

I met his twinkling-eyed gaze and whispered, “Have your people call my people and we’ll talk.”

Then Quatre was there, clearing his throat and shaking a black suit with a snowy white shirt and a blood red tie thing meaningfully.  “In you go, Duo.  You’re up next.”

“Hell,” I grouched, groaning as Trowa helped me to my feet.

“Come on, Duo.  It’s for your wedding,” Quatre cajoled, using The Look.  It was the very same look that had made me agree to sign my life away to a government-controlled-WEI in the first place.  I still remembered The Tone, too: _“Don’t make me watch them lock you up, Duo.  Please.”_   I sighed.  I was such a chump.

“Dammit,” I muttered and Trowa followed me into the fitting room, smirking.  Yeah, I knew he was gonna enjoy this.  He didn’t need to freakin’ rub it in.

Trowa took my boots, ostensibly to watch over them but I think it was just a tactic to ensure that I wouldn’t escape out the back or something.  “T-minus fifteen minutes and counting, Q-bean,” I told him as I stepped out in the first ensemble he’d thrust at me.

 “Until what?” Trowa wanted to know, lounging on _my_ bench with a shit-eating grin peeping out from behind that damn fall of hair.

“Kablooie,” I deadpanned.

Quatre worked fast, I’ll give him that.  I suppose I helped in some small way to move things along by blatantly refusing to try on any other colors.  He bullied me into a second suit and that was right when my patience just freakin’ ran out.  Plus, as Quatre was tugging on the jacket hem here and there, his off-handed comment to Trowa to “shut your mouth; you’re drooling” was a lovely ego-booster and a definite vote in favor of the suit I was currently suffering.

“You don’t like shopping much, do you?”  Trowa joked as he walked me to my door nearly an hour later.  We’d ended up getting new shoes, too, damnitall.  And then the tailor’d arrived to hem up our trousers legs to regulation length and… well… at least it was over with now.  I was pretty sure that, as bad as it had been, it definitely could have been worse.  And it _would_ have been worse if Q-ball had had access to an Armani.  That pretty much decided me: I was never, _ever_ getting married again.  Or, if I was, I certainly wasn’t going to tell Quatre about it until after the fact.  The Look was preferable to more guilt-induced-type torture shopping.

“Me?  Dislike shopping?  Gee, whatever gave you that idea?” I grumped.  I caught the upward twitch of his lips out of the corner of my eye and, when my gaze dropped to the necklace he was still wearing, I added, “I _love_ shopping.”

And it kind of freaked me out that I really _had_ loved shopping for Trowa’s gift.  Although, granted, it was fun shopping for gifts in general.

Trowa noticed the direction of my gaze and a moment later his fingers were dancing along the edge of the onyx and over the leather.  He didn’t say thank you, but then again he didn’t really have to.  I could hear it anyway, y’know?

“What’s next for you today?” he asked solicitously.

“Gotta get all my shit together.  The security gorgons are coming by tomorrow morning to make sure I’m not – I dunno – trying to move a nuclear reactor or something into our new place.”

Trowa made a non-committal noise and then it belatedly occurred to me to ask him the same thing.  “You?”

“The same.  I might go for a swim before dinner.”

“Huh,” I remarked, recalling the last time I’d seen Trowa in his swimwear.  For some reason, my reaction to the visual was distinctly different now than it had been last time.  “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“I hope so.”

I trailed my fingers down his arm in farewell as I entered my apartment alone and – with a sigh – got the hell to work.  After all, I kinda had a date before dinner.

It didn’t take all that long to sort through my stuff.  The trash bin wasn’t even full by the time I was done and there was still space in my two duffel bags.  That’s all I had to show for four years of living in the same space.  Pretty damn pathetic, huh?  Well, no one was ever going to accuse me of having overdeveloped nesting habits.

I found Trowa already in the pool next to the gym.  He also seemed to be alone.  Once upon a time, I might have yearned for the skill required to stealthily dive in and try to grab his ankle or dunk him.  Now, however, the very thought seemed kinda crass.  Instead, I sat down at the edge of the pool, dangling my legs in the heated water and waited for him to finish his lap.

He moved through the water like a freakin’ shark, all bottled motion and effortless strokes.  I was of half a mind to pull my feet out before he got within striking distance.  He surfaced in front of me before I could muster the energy to retreat.  Trowa stood up and the water lapped around his hips.  I noticed that he was wearing the same tight, little swim number I’d seen him in last time.  I couldn’t tell ya if I was happy to note how well he filled it out or alarmed that I’d noticed at all.

“Hey,” he said in greeting, reaching for my calves and massaging the muscles.

“Right backatcha,” I retorted.  I was a little busy being freaking amazed that even when wet his hair seemed to behave itself.  It followed the contours on the side of his face, plastered to his skin and tracing the line of his jaw like it was frickin’ painted on.  Damn.  My hair was never gonna look that good wet.  Not even in my dreams.

And then I felt like a damn girl for even caring.

Unfortunately, after I forcibly banished the hair issue from my mind, I had sparkling green eyes, sensually smiling lips, and a broad expanse of bare chest to contemplate.

I figured now was a good time to get in the water where it was natural for certain bits to, um, float upward in my generously spacious black swim trunks.  “Make room, pal, or I’m gonna take you down when I launch this pontoon.”

“Do you even know what a pontoon is, colony boy?” Trowa murmured as he obligingly took a step backward.

I slid into the water with a _sploosh!_   “Sure.  It’s like the doggie paddle version of the boat family.”  Which was pretty much how well I swam, being colony-raised and all.

Trowa watched my progress as I splashed my way down the lane, keeping pace with me one lazily executed backstroke at a time.  It was on the tip of my tongue to order him to flounder a bit for the benefit of my ego.

“Here, try this,” Trowa quietly suggested, rolling over and spearing the water with his arms, hands pressed together, and then pushing them wide and sweeping the water behind him, propelling himself forward in what I believe was commonly known as the breast stroke.

I worked on ignoring the rippling of the muscles beneath his skin.  Luckily, I successfully managed it thanks to my decidedly cynical inner smartass.  “And give you an excuse to perform mouth-to-mouth on me when I inhale half the water in the damn pool?”

“Just exhale as you reach forward,” he coached, “and inhale at the apex.”  He thoughtfully demonstrated the technique for me.

Despite my misgivings, I gamely gave it a try.  It was clear that I was never going to be a champion swimmer, but Trowa was a good teacher and I managed the breast stroke for a couple of laps before deciding I’d had enough of water sports.

But, it turned out that the fun was just beginning.  “Trowa!” I yelped as he tugged the tie off the end of my braid without so much as a _Pardonnez-moi_ and then shoved me under the spray of water in the gym’s communal showers.

“Present and accounted for,” he acknowledged, quickly working my hair loose.

“What the hell—!”  If I’d known agreeing to rinse off here was going to mean dealing with both Trowa “Mister Fast Fingers” Barton _and_ my hair, I would’ve taken a frickin’ rain check.

“I’m just getting the chlorine out.  Relax, Duo.”

Relax.  Right.  The last time someone besides me had touched my hair I’d been a semi-illiterate, barely-reformed pickpocket and street urchin.

Not the best of emotional baggage to take a shower with.

But, this time, bathing was done in silence and with methodical calm.  There were no sounds of splashing water, no shouts of youthful bravado, no gentle admonishments, no kind but exasperated woman doing her best to reason me into cleanliness.  Now, it was just me and Trowa standing under the hot spray in our swim trunks.

The quiet of it alone was enough of a difference to give me the peace of mind necessary for closing my eyes and just letting Trowa massage the swimmer’s shampoo into my hair.  I leaned one hand against the wall tiles and allowed it to happen.  It was easier than fighting him and it was a helluvalot easier than trying to tap dance my way out of it.  Trowa and I were – as ever – being watched, I was sure, so yeah.  I went with the flow.

“Are your eyes closed?” he asked quietly after several minutes of lathering.

“Yup.”

“Rinse,” he directed and I was grateful when he pressed the hand-held shower head into my grasp.

As I rinsed, I turned and watched as he lathered his own hair.  It was weird seeing him with both eyes closed and his hair pulled out of his face.  Weird but no more so than us both standing here, taking a shower together, I guess.

Since he got to do the lathering, I took the initiative to do the rinsing and was a little surprised when he let me.  I guess this was his answer to my non-verbal request yesterday that he trust me.  I looked for it as he reached for the bottle of body soap and, yup, he was still wearing the leather cord around his neck.  If he wondered why I was smiling when he straightened, he didn’t ask.  We just shared a look and passed the soap between us.

I was reminded again of why Trowa had been my first choice for this mission; it was just so damn easy to be with the man.  He never demanded explanations like Wufei, or details like Quatre, or compliance like Heero.  He just… was.

“How long does all this take to dry?” he asked as I shut off the water.  I felt him peel a wayward tendril of hair off of my shoulder and down the back of my arm.

“Forever and a half,” I muttered and he laughed softly.

“I believe you.”  He then picked up an extra towel and offered, “If you show me what to do to help, do you think we’ll get out of here before dinner’s over?”

“An admirable goal,” I commended.  “Let’s find out.”  So, I charged him with toweling the right half while I wrung out the left and then, employing two hair dryers and a pair of combs, we got to work.  And, while it was nice having a hand, especially with dinner being on the line, and while it was comfortable with Trowa being the one to lend that hand, it just didn’t make up for the enviable fact that he did _nothing_ to his hair whatsoever – he didn’t even touch it – and it dried perfectly.

I think he felt the heat of my half-hearted glare because he didn’t offer to help me with the actual braiding.  “I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Yeah,” I agreed.

He disappeared into the locker aisles and I heard sounds of cloth brushing against skin while he dressed, and then I listened to the sound of footsteps as he left.  I was still only halfway finished with braiding the damn fool mass.  For the first time in just about forever, I considered cutting it.  Maybe after the mission, depending on how things went.  It might be nice to try on a new “me.”

I found Trowa in the cafeteria and the other guys were all there, clustered around the table.  I waved, fetched a tray and got the last serving of everything from the grumpy-looking cafeteria chefs.  Trowa pushed my chair out for me and I sat.

“Whoa, looks like you boys had a wild time without me,” I observed with a smirk, taking in the assortment of coffee and tea cups, discarded sugar packets and creamer containers.  “I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to keep up with ya.”

Trowa snorted softly and his knee bumped mine.  “Oink oink,” he muttered and I actually laughed.

Quatre smiled, too, but looked a little confused at our in-joke.  Wufei did that exasperated sigh thing again.  Heero just looked braced for another round of self-destruct.

“The hell, guys,” I bitched playfully, poking a bit at my muchly-mashed mashed potatoes.  “I have arrived.  The party may now commence.”

“Told you he’d expect a party,” Wufei grumped at Quatre, who just grinned.

“And I told you I’d handle it,” Trowa retorted smoothly.

I looked up, brow cocked and a challenge dancing on the tip of my tongue.  And then Trowa’s hand was thrusting gently into the hair at the back of my neck and his face was moving in and then he was kissing me.  Right in front of the guys.  With tongue.

_Damn!_

I wasn’t kidding when I’d accused Trowa of having a slew of smooch-sessions in his past.  If this was raw talent, somebody someday was gonna be a damn lucky life partner of this man.

There’s no point in denying that I _wasn’t_ panting by the time he leaned back.  I did not, however, venture to gauge our friends’ reactions.  I’d bet my braid that Quatre was trying not to smile and/or laugh, Wufei was ignoring us and looking offended, and Heero was probably back to incinerating people with the power of his glare.

“Show off,” I muttered at Trowa instead and elbowed him in the side.

He chuckled softly and it kinda hit me then that this was a sound I hadn’t heard much over the last four years, but I was fast becoming used to it.  Damn, the man could even pretend to be blissfully happy.  Now _that_ , ladies and gentlemen, took talent. 

“If you’ve got it, flaunt it,” he reasoned.

“Hah.  Watch it there, babe, or people might start thinkin’ you’ve got something to prove.”

He didn’t answer with words.  He just tucked a lock of escaped hair behind my ear and, with a tiny, satisfied smile on his face, slouched confidently in his chair, draping a proprietary arm over the back of mine.  I just rolled my eyes and started in on my damn mashed potatoes and gravy.

Quatre got the conversation back up and rolling before Wufei could storm off and Heero could start stacking dishes with the intent to deliver them to the tray return window.  “Your suits should be ready tomorrow morning,” our super CEO stated into the awkward silence.

Oh, joy.  The wondrous experience of wearing a suit awaited.  Whoo hoo.

But, what I said was, “Yeah?”

Quatre launched into the schedule he’d already outlined for Trowa and I tomorrow and I just let him.  It was hard to deny the guy his happiness and Quatre was always at his happiest when he was strategizing for the greater good.

Eventually, Wufei stopped scowling and crossing his arms and started contributing his entertainingly cynical commentary.

Heero still had nothing to say to Trowa, which baffled me.  They’d always gotten along and I couldn’t quite figure out why Heero was in such a snit.  When he got up to return the used dishes and trays, I scrambled up to help him.

“Hey, man,” I said softy as we set our loads down on the stainless steel counter.  “What’s the deal?  Do you not want Trowa and me to get hitched?”

I’d never gotten any indication that Heero would be jealous and that still didn’t seem like what was going on here, but I just couldn’t work out what else it might be.

“I don’t have a problem with you two getting married,” he replied evenly and I heard the truth in his words.  “What I have a problem with,” he continued, his voice dropping into a grating growl, “is getting married under false pretenses.”

“What—?” I began and then bit my tongue.  I so did not want to have this conversation with Heero here and now.

Thankfully, Heero didn’t press me about the mission.  Instead, he said, “It’s not my place to say.”

I watched as he stormed back to the table.

Damnitall.  He _did_ know.  And he still thought I was keeping Trowa completely in the dark.  Guilt shadowed me back to the table, sizing up my ass for the juiciest bit to bite.  It was just as well that our little gathering broke up then.  I gave Trowa’s arm a squeeze and then lurched after Heero before he could make his getaway.

“Everything is _fine,”_ I insisted, matching his strides.  I wished I dared more, but I just _couldn’t._   Hell, he should understand that, Master of the Mission that he was.

He pulled up short so suddenly that I nearly overshot him.  “I hope so.  For both your sakes,” he answered and then he left me standing in the lobby as he strode off to the elevator.  A long moment later, I felt Trowa’s hand settle on my hip and the heat from his arm pressed against my back.

“Don’t worry about it, Duo,” he murmured softly at my side.

I nodded, but I couldn’t get that look in Heero’s eyes out of my head.  I knew that look and I knew it wasn’t associated with a mission.  Heero was in full protective mode.  But, for the life of me, I just couldn’t figure out who or what he was trying to defend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line – “Check me out. I’m so (fill in the blank)” – is from Avarice’s Appearances Series, fic number 3, “Armchair Psychology”.
> 
> Trowa’s talent at wearing suits is a feature that I’m borrowing from Clara Barton’s “A Little Less Normal”, which is an AWESOME Duo/Trowa AU.
> 
> And here we see another glimpse of that cousin of Sunhawk’s Guilt Beast (from her Ion Arc). You know, I always imagine those Skeiths on Neopets.com as the Guilt Beast for some reason.
> 
> Again, lemme know if you want me to explain references to Duo’s past or Trowa’s previous work as a merc. Still trying to stay within the canon here.


	5. Setting in a Honeymoon

# Chapter 5: Setting in a Honeymoon

_If I woke up next to you…_

 

Wedding days are not romantic.  They are not fun or exciting.  They are, in fact, Hell on wheels.  That was what Sunday taught me, anyway.

I won’t bore you with a detailed account of my rushing off to mass – yes, dammit, I’d overslept again – and missing breakfast.  Stomach growling, I warmed the pew all on my lonesome as Trowa was currently getting vetted by security and moving his crap over to our new place.  I gulped down lunch – beef stew, I think – and boogied my ass upstairs to endure the same security procedure that Trowa had suffered through in the a.m.  And yes, it sucked.  So, right, we’ll skip over the whole watching-while-hamhanded-morons-pawed-through-my-possessions thing and head right into—

“Duo!”

I scowled.  “Quatre.”  I was so not in the mood for whatever it was he wanted, even if it was just to wish me luck.  At that point, I was looking for someone I could both strangle and get away with strangling.

Funny how that seemed to be such a tall order around here.

I didn’t demand to know why he was here, all right?  But I did stare at him until he came clean.  It might not be the most effective interrogation strategy ever, but it worked on Quatre.  He grinned brightly at me from the other side of my threshold and held up a garment bag.  “Forgetting something?”

Dammit.  Now he was both perky _and_ annoyingly self-righteous.

“Tell me you’re here because Trowa already kicked you out of his place,” I muttered, stepping back and letting him into my dinky apartment, likely for the last time.

“You already moved all your things, I see,” he commented as he came in.  The deft change of topic was telling.  Trowa had probably bodily tossed his nauseatingly happy ass into the hall earlier.

“Hand over the monkey suit and be gone, Winner,” I ordered him.  I was allowed to be grumpy about this; I’d paid for the damn thing, after all.  Quatre was just the messenger and everyone knows what happens to them more often than not.

Quatre’s smile faded a bit at my rude dismissal but he didn’t flinch or tuck tail and run.  He actually had the audacity to glance meaningfully at my frazzled-looking braid.  “Oh, but don’t you want help with—?”

I held up a hand to halt the offer I just _knew_ was coming.  “If you ask to help me with my hair like I’m some kind of damn _girl,_ I will punch you so hard they’ll never find all your teeth.”

Quatre blinked, swallowed a smile, and cleared his throat.  “I’ll help you with your necktie.  If that’s all right?”

It wasn’t, but hell, I knew when I was defeated and those damn neckties would be the freakin’ death of me – one way or another – I was _certain_.  And, in all honestly, it wasn’t the help I was objecting to; I just didn’t want anyone to see me this flamin’ panicked.  I was getting married in two hours.

Two.  Hours.

I felt like throwing up.

“Duo, you need to calm down,” Quatre coached, rubbing his own chest with the palm of his hand.  I guess being empathic was a _bitch._   Not that I’d know.

“Yeah.  Tell me about it,” I agreed tersely.  I was perversely pleased that I tensed up even more in spite of myself.  Contrary sonuvabitch?  Me?  Why, whatever gave you that idea?

“Would a shower help?” Quatre tentatively suggested.

“No.  A boxing match might, though.”  Which was why he hadn’t tried to hug me or pat my shoulder yet, I bet.  He could probably sense that I was looking for an excuse to wail on someone.

Quatre looked me in the eye and offered, “I’ll go get Heero.”

I barked out a laugh.  “You will not.  He’s torqued enough as it is.”

Quatre conceded the point, aborting his move toward the door.  “Wufei?” he suggested halfheartedly.

I growled.  I did _not_ want to see Wufei right now, either.  It was bad enough his “advice” from Thursday evening was back for an encore and ringing in my ears.

“Fine,” Quatre allowed and I watched as he dragged my armchair over to the desk.  He then pointed me toward the plastic desk chair and ordered.  “Arm wrestling.  Now.”

I couldn’t help it; I cackled.  “Best out of seventeen?” I finagled.

Quatre bargained back, “Two out of three.”

“Six out of eleven.”

“Four out of seven.”

“Five out of nine.”

“Deal.”

Yes, we freakin’ arm wrestled and no, it wasn’t very mature.  Now ask me if I give a damn.  The important thing was that it actually helped.  Biceps throbbing from the strain, brow dewed with sweat, and now only a little over an hour left to go until the big “I do,” I was finally able to focus.

“Thanks, Quatre,” I sighed, leaning back in my chair and giving my right arm a tentative swing to stretch out the abused muscles.  “I needed that.”

“What are friends for?” he replied with a brave smile as he tried not to be too obvious about shaking out his hand.  I guess I _had_ gripped him pretty hard…

“Now,” he continued in that boss-man tone of his, “get in the bathroom and take a quick shower.  Here’s a towel.”  He produced one from a pocket of the garment bag along with a men’s toiletry kit and then handed the lot over to me.  “Let me know when you’re ready for me to help you with your tie.”

So that’s how it went.  I showered.  I shaved.  I re-braided my hair.  I dressed: clean boxers, black socks, white undershirt, white dress shirt, black wool slacks, and black dress shoes.

When I exited the bathroom, Quatre shoved himself out of the armchair and advanced.  I held out the red cravat-thing I’d picked out the day before and kept still while he set about assembling it around my neck.  Instead of informing Quatre that I was sure he’d been a hangman in one of his previous lives, I muttered, “The shoes have _zero_ traction.”

“That’s so you can’t run off in the middle of the ceremony,” he replied, biting back a smile.

I didn’t get my boxers in a knot over his renewed, perky mood.  I just sighed and let him tie my noose.

“I’ve never seen Trowa so happy,” he volunteered, startling me.  I glanced at him, but he didn’t meet my gaze.  Nor did he elaborate.  I watched as he applied a fancy-looking diamond pin to the center of the cravat.  “There.  Now it won’t get tangled up.”

“Even if I try to make a run for it?” I checked.

“Even then.  Not even when the four of us tackle you and haul you back to the altar.”

“Thanks,” I drawled sarcastically.  “So, no pressure, right?”

Quatre finally met my gaze and placed a hand on my shoulder.  “Everything will be fine, Duo.  I know it.”

They were simple – and often empty – words, but hearing them said in Quatre’s voice, in that tone which inspires greatness in any and all who hear it, I couldn’t help but feel a strange calm come over me.  Yes, everything would be perfect.  This was just one more mission objective and I was going to meet it.  Nothing scarier than that.

I let out a deep breath and nodded.  Then I put on my jacket, let Quatre fuss a bit more, and it was time to go.  I don’t remember much of the journey downstairs to the chapel.  Maybe Quatre talked to me about getting a pet platypus and naming it Gilbert.  I couldn’t have told you _what_ the hell we did between the door of my now-former apartment and the threshold downstairs, but when we arrived, I just stopped and stared.

Trowa was already inside, standing near the first row of pews.  His head was bent toward Wufei, who was speaking quietly to him.  Heero was brooding in his navy suit, but to those who didn’t know him well, I knew he’d simply appear mildly irritated.  Father Daniels probably assumed it was because I was late.

But what captured my attention and _held_ it was Trowa.  He was… damn.  He was damn fine in that black suit with his peridot-green cravat.  I noticed his also had a pin through the center of it, just like mine.  A matched set, it appeared, and I wondered if they were supposed to be gifts from Quatre or if he’d just so happened to have two of the same tie pins on hand and was loaning them to us.

Now was not the time to ask, of course.  And, as Trowa glanced up and I saw frank appreciation glitter in his visible green eye, tie pins – gifted, borrowed, or stolen – were the furthest thing from my mind.

I suppressed a shiver as I just stared at him, mouth dry and palms sweaty.  I was about to marry this man.  Oh God.  I so wasn’t ready for this but…

Disturbingly, I kinda _wanted_ to be.

My head was reeling, spinning, falling ass over tea kettle, but my feet worked fine and they carried me up the aisle to where Trowa and Father Daniels were waiting.  Quatre gestured Wufei and Heero into nearby seats.  The priest cleared his throat.  Trowa offered me his hand and, with a shaky and slightly apologetic smile, I took it.  Of course his grip was warm, dry, and steady.  Nothing like mine.  I watched his expression twitch as a flicker of worry interrupted his soft smile.  His thumb smoothed over the back of my hand and his visible eyebrow hitched upward in question.

No, Trowa didn’t stop the proceedings to ask me if I was all right.  He did that in perfect silence.

I gripped his hand tighter in return and took a deep breath.  As I did so, I imagined his laugh; I pictured his smile; I remembered his one-liners and patience.  Only then could I feel a genuine smile stretch my lips.

Trowa relaxed and I tuned in to Father Daniels just as he was getting to the participative part of the ceremony.

“Trowa Barton,” Father Daniels began, turning toward Trowa, and I realized that – somewhere along the line – Trowa had legally changed his name to his wartime moniker.  For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to me that he’d _chosen_ to keep it, but I was glad he had.  I couldn’t imagine him as anyone else but, well, _Trowa._

“Do you take Duo Maxwell for your lawfully wedded husband?”

Trowa smiled at me, his expression warm and – damn Quatre for being right – easily the happiest I’d ever seen him.  “I do.”

“And do you, Duo Maxwell, take Trowa Barton for your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do.”  Despite the smile on my face, my voice sounded like a broken bicycle being dragged upside-down and backwards over gravel.  I prayed no one else noticed.

“Then, by the power vested in me by the Civil Office of the United Earth Sphere, I now pronounce you both wed.”

And that was it.  Five minutes and we were done.  Nothing fancy, nothing romantic, not even an exchange of rings.  My first thought was that Quatre still had time to grab some spinach quiche while it was hot.  My second thought was to wonder why we’d spent hours on Saturday shopping for clothes we’d only worn to an event that had taken a grand total of ten minutes.  My third thought—

My third thought was discarded like a sandwich wrapper tossed out the window of a passing car as Trowa closed the distance between us and kissed me.

I think it was my nerves that made me, um, embellish things.  I grabbed his jacket lapels and I kissed him back, long, hard, and deep.  I had no idea what I was seeking or running from, but I was somehow sure that he had the answer.  Trowa let me kiss him like a man starving.  He gave that moment to me so I could lose myself.  And then, gently, he coaxed us away from the edge I was toeing.

We parted softly and I knew I should have felt embarrassed by the display but, honestly, I was just thankful that I kinda-sorta-almost felt like _me_ again.  My manic energy was back under control and I could turn to our former comrades-in-arms and not freak out.

“So, guys.  Whaddaya say we go get us some quiche?”

Trowa tugged me closer and, turning his face toward me, actually chuckled softly against my hair.  Quatre laughed.  Wufei snorted with amusement.  Heero just rolled his eyes mockingly and sighed, struggling to suppress a smile.  I was heartened by that; even if he thought we were getting married for the wrong reasons, at least he seemed ready to let it the hell go now that it was all over and done with.

Father Daniels had Trowa and I sign the marriage license.  Quatre and Wufei stepped forward to witness it for us.  Out of courtesy, I asked the good father if he’d like to join us for dinner, but he graciously declined.

The five of us, still in our suits, settled down at a table in the cafeteria with our trays of quiche, salad, coffee, and – in deference to the occasion – servings of raspberry cobbler.

We drew a lot of attention from the other WEI employees.  Almost no one came to dinner dressed in suits and ties and, certainly, the fancy duds Trowa and I were sporting were a bit above and beyond the call of duty.  If there’d been a curiosity meter in the room, it would have blown its top.  When Trowa (cup of coffee in one hand) settled back in his chair and laid his other arm along the back of mine, I figured that, if the busybodies craning their necks to get a good look at us weren’t clued in, then they’d never figure it out.

“It’s too bad we have work tomorrow morning,” Quatre bemoaned with a sympathetic grin.

I wasn’t entirely sure how to take that comment.  Was he sad on our behalf because it implied a certain irreverence to our wedding or because we couldn’t boink like bunnies all weekend?  If the latter was the case, then he was seriously overestimating the endurance of a pair of 20-year-old guys.  I was pretty sure Trowa and I wouldn’t last long once we got started.

And then I told myself to shut the hell up and _stop_ thinking about it before I was stupid enough to actually consider investigating the concept.

“Yeah, well, the world keeps on turning,” I observed and noticed Wufei’s look of relief.  Yeah, there were at least two of us here at this table who didn’t want to think about the wedding night.  Heh.

We talked about normal stuff although there wasn’t much in the way of personal news to discuss.  Trowa and Heero had watched the evening news today and filled the rest of us in on it.  Apparently, there was some brewing antipathy amongst the members of the War Tribunal.  That warranted watching as they could decide to revoke our community service at any time and toss our asses in prison.  But, there was nothing to be done about it at this exact moment and speculation was still pretty thin.

“How’s the new apartment?” Quatre asked while I debated mentioning the fact that Relena had been giving an interview on TV the other day about colony-Earth trade negotiations.  It was noteworthy for no other reason than she’d apparently gone to the same prep school as the news anchor – some blonde guy who clearly thought his shit didn’t stink.  He’d asked her some tough questions about her new policies and continued public support of the five former Gundam pilots, but she hadn’t backed down.  Not that I’d expected her to.  By the end of the war, she’d known how to get the job done, whatever it happened to be.  So, it had been cool seeing her again and watching her dice up that dandy in a live broadcast.  I’m sure the other guys would agree and I was pretty sure everyone had seen it.  It was definitely a good candidate for a new topic since the silence had been getting kinda awkward. 

But Quatre’d beaten me to it with his contribution.  I seriously doubted Heero and Wufei wanted to know about our new digs.  Still, Q-ball was trying, so I gave him an enthusiastic grin.  “I think it’ll fit the bill.”  From what I’d seen when I’d poked my head in the bathroom, it had certainly looked promising.  “No windows, though.”

That was something I was pretty sure we all missed; having a window to the world beyond in our rooms.

Heero did his little standard grunt thing.  Wufei tapped a finger against his empty teacup.  “That’s to be expected,” he agreed.

And that was it for that topic.  Damn.  Were we friends or what?  I guess what we all really needed was a bonding experience to lift us out of our hum-drum boredom.  I wasn’t too keen on providing one of those here at the dinner table in plain view of the public, but if they’d keep their space-suits on and give me a couple of days…

Trowa cleared his throat.  “That new Boyd mystery arrived at the library last weekend, Wufei.”

At this, Wufei actually looked interested.  I hadn’t realized that Trowa and Wufei shared an interest in the same author.  “And?” he prompted, clearly asking how the book had been.

Trowa tilted his head to the side and diplomatically answered, “Not as good as his earlier works, but a definite improvement over the most recent.”

“Excellent timing, in that case,” Wufei grumped.  “I was about to abandon his writings completely.”

As I watched this byplay, I had a moment of inspiration.  “Hey, that’s what we need!  A book club,” I announced.

Surprisingly, _that_ got everyone’s attention.   Quatre jumped on the bandwagon with me, asking Wufei to recommend something for all of us to read.  Heero shocked the hell outta me by suggesting an archaic epic.  His remark prompted me to mention one of my favorites, and, wouldn’t you know it, we spent the next hour giving synopses of our personal, all-time-best reads.

For the first time in ages, all five of us actually had an animated discussion about something that _didn’t_ need to be infiltrated or blown up.  I was kinda sad when the cafeteria lights dimmed and I noticed that we were the last stragglers left.

We carried our dishes over to the tray return and marched our way toward the elevator.  Things got a little quiet on the ride up until Wufei dared: “Barton, are you going to make sure Maxwell gets to work on time?”

“No guarantees,” Trowa replied, shrugging easily.

I laughed.  “Hell, it’s up to me to make sure Tro comes in _late_ from now on!”

And then I wasn’t so sure if that had been the best thing to say as it kinda implied a certain, uh, _impediment_ to leaving the apartment which I sorta seemed to be volunteering to provide.

So, the evening ended awkwardly anyway.  Well, hell.

“This is our stop,” I declared, halting beside the door to our new apartment.  I’d almost said “This is where we get off” but that probably would not have gone over all that well in the wake of my previous announcement.  Just _imagining_ the looks on their faces – Trowa’s included – was enough to have me scrambling to smother a hysterical snicker.

Trowa and I endured another round of congratulations from Quatre, a nod and neutral “best wishes” from Wufei, and an eerie “Begin as you mean to go” from Heero.  It was a relief to scan our palms, swipe our cards and get the hell away from everyone.  It was then, stepping across the threshold, that a whole new realm of the unknown assaulted me.

It occurred to me that this was our freakin’ wedding night.

Oh, fuck.

I heard myself giggle.

“Duo?” Trowa asked.  He was still standing right next to me, probably waiting for me to, I dunno, _do_ something.

I cleared my throat and struggled to cling to sanity.  “Got a couple of things to put away,” I replied, dodging the question I knew he’d been asking me.  I just… I just could not deal with What Comes Next right now.  I just couldn’t.

I busied myself with putting away my clothes from earlier.  I vaguely recalled dropping them off here on my way downstairs with Quatre.  I could hear Trowa moving through the living room and entering the bedroom behind me.  I kept my back to him as he opened his wardrobe and I heard the sounds of clothes being shed and hung up.  Thinking that was a pretty good idea, I shucked off my own jacket and laid it over the nearest, straight-backed chair.  I kicked off my shoes, tumbling them out of the way of foot traffic.  I then reached for my fancy necktie and there I found myself defeated.  How in the world could I set explosive charges in the dark, assemble and load all manner of firearms blindfolded and handcuffed, short out electronic locks and hotwire anything with wheels, and _yet_ I couldn’t cope with unknotting a damn silk tie?

Seriously.  It was ridiculous.

“Dammit,” I ground out and, turning, called reluctantly, “Trowa?  Could you…?”

My voice just freakin’ shriveled up and died.  I gawped at Trowa, watching as he finished pulling off his white undershirt, revealing several very old burn scars on his back.  The scars weren’t repulsive or anything – hell, I had my fair share of ‘em – but their presence startled me and I wondered how I could’ve _not_ noticed them before.  That did not bode well for my powers of observation.

“Yes?” he prompted, turning toward me and, for the life of me, I could not remember my original question.  I was suddenly fascinated by the progress of the white fabric down his arms.  I felt my whole body flush at the sight of the naturally tanned skin being revealed.

I shouldn’t be getting hot and bothered watching another guy – a guy who has been my friend for years – pull off his undershirt.  I so should not.  Besides which, it made absolutely no sense!  I’d seen him nearly naked just the night before in the pool so, what the blazing hell?  This was wrong.  I was not going to let myself just stand here, adrenaline and lust going full throttle.  But, damnitalltohell, we were married which meant that those sinewy muscles and that expanse of lightly tanned skin were all _mine._   Oh, my God.  What had I done?  Trowa and I were married and he was mine to touch as I liked, more or less.

A sane person – a _straight_ guy – would not be this turned on by the idea… right?

I gulped.

“Duo?”  His voice was soft, nearly a whisper, but it startled me.  I blinked at him and I was pretty sure my eyes were about as wide as Gundam hydraulic washers.  He stood there in only the trousers he’d worn downstairs and his socks.  His white t-shirt was now bunched in his hands, his fingers curled so tightly into the material that I could barely see any of his knuckles.

“What are you thinking?”  He seemed to force himself to ask the question levelly.  It didn’t even surprise me that he’d abandoned trying to find out what I’d wanted.  It wasn’t as if I could have told him, anyway.

 _I was thinking I could touch you now,_ I didn’t blurt.  _I was thinking you’re mine,_ I didn’t whimper.  No, my response was much more manly than either of those: “I really hate neckties.”

Trowa gave me a small, sudden smile.  “Shall I?”  He gestured toward the fabric still pinned to my shirtfront and knotted under my chin.

“If you wouldn’t mind.”  I congratulated myself on that perfectly calm-sounding entreaty.  Yes, by God, I could do this.  I could be _rational and in control!_

He tossed the T-shirt ball onto the foot of the bed and – I knew it had to be unintentional but – he freakin’ _stalked_ toward me.  I set my jaw and tilted my chin up instead of taking a reflexive step back.

And then Trowa’s bare chest was right there, just a short, simple touch away.  My dry-throated swallow was audible.

I held still while he deftly removed the tie pin and then leaned over to place it on the nearby bureau.  I sucked a breath in when he straightened and my blood rioted in my veins as his scent hit me and…  _Oh God._

I just about jumped out of my skin when his fingers began picking apart the knot in the tie. 

“Just a moment,” he said, his tone soft and vaguely apologetic.  As close as he was, he must have felt me startle.  But I could see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, the banner across the finish line.  Yes, just a moment and then he’d step away and there’d be a bit of much-needed distance between him and me.  Just a moment more…

The tie slid around the back of my neck and then I was completely free of it.  It pooled in Trowa’s palm and draped over his hand like blood caught in freeze-frame.  Yes, the necktie was dealt with.  I was free.  I could turn away now, only… I didn’t.

I looked up and met his gaze.  I felt the tiny hairs at the back of my neck stand on end, saw gooseflesh rise on his arms and watched his nipples stiffen, saw him draw in a breath and hold it.  He didn’t move, though.  He just stood in front of me, breath held, and waited.

I suppose I could have turned away.  I could have muttered a quick thanks and gone on about the business of locating a T-shirt and a pair of shorts for sleeping in.  I could have…

I leaned toward him.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his hand clutch my necktie in a death grip, but still he didn’t move.  My gaze trained on his, I nervously wet my lips, I took a deep breath, I felt my mouth form his name.

Dear God, what in the _hell_ was I doing?

And then it didn’t matter.  He tossed the necktie onto the bureau and his hands – surprisingly warm and steady – framed my face.  He hesitated briefly, and I knew this was my final warning, my last chance to stop what was coming.  I knew that I should.  I _should_ stop this.  It wasn’t real and I was straight.  Wasn’t I?

Trowa’s lashes lowered until his eyes were glittering, green slits.  He tilted his head to the side, angling his face and aligning our lips… and then he kissed me.  It started slow but I was instantly bursting with heat and what felt like nuclear fission exploding in my veins.  I closed my eyes as he coaxed my lips open and it only made the sting, the buzz, the whirlwind, the sandstorm within me that much more unbearable.

He was burning me alive.

But there was more.  His tongue slid inside, surged to and fro, and I heard myself moan.  I felt his bare skin beneath my hands as I grasped his shoulders.  One of his hands delved into my hair to hold me steady while the other arm curled around my waist.  _Oh God…_

Trowa Barton rocked… my… world.  I just held on for the ride.

He stepped forward once, twice.  I shuffled backward until my back connected with the closed wardrobe door.  His mouth was locked onto mine, his tongue stroking over my palate again and again.  My eyes had long since rolled up into my skull.  I felt his hand leave the nape of my neck and start popping the buttons free on my crisp, white shirt and I just didn’t care.

I was a drowning man in a sea of Trowa.

His mouth released mine and I slumped there, wheezing uselessly.  I felt his soft hair brush my jaw an instant before his lips found my neck.  I clenched my jaw and clutched him tighter in helpless reaction.  He nibbled and brushed, sucked and nuzzled as, bit by bit, my shirt gaped open.  The feel of the shirt tails being pulled out of my pants shocked a gasp from me and then both of Trowa’s hot-as-holy-hell hands were on my waist, searing me through the thin cotton of my undershirt.

“Mmm, Duo,” he purred in my ear and I melted.  I just freakin’ melted against him.  He caught me with a thigh between mine and I heard a very unmanly whimper as my groin made contact with firm, wool-covered muscle.  And still, he wasn’t done kissing me, rubbing his chest against mine, rocking his hips.

I dragged my hands down his chest, catching his nipples beneath my fingers and shocking a lung-bursting gasp from him, but I was desperate for more contact, more heat, more _him_ and I wrapped my arms around his waist, clutching the waistband of his pants at the base of his spine and trying to wiggle out of my undershirt at the same time.

“Ahh,” he agreed softly, breathily against my ear, and then I felt the too close, too constraining, too itchy cotton being pulled out of my trousers and peeled up my torso.  I didn’t want to abandon my grip on him, but there was no denying the logistics of the situation.  As Trowa tugged upward insistently, I lifted my arms and there was a moment of rushing white cloth and then I was bare to the waist and my mouth was pressing against his neck, his shoulder, his collarbone and I was mindlessly panting.  I was throbbing.  I was… I was determined to get these damn trousers the hell _off._

Trowa groaned as I fumbled with the fastenings on my own pants.  “Not here,” he advised in a strained tone, steering me away from the wardrobe and toward a more accommodating surface.  As I sat down on the bed, the button and zipper on my trousers finally ceded to my attack and I felt the fabric sag to my knees and then fall into a puddle around my ankles.

I barely noticed my own freedom what with Trowa’s hands parting the fly of his trousers and shoving them down his hips.  He wasn’t wearing much underneath.  Just a pair of very snug boxer shorts that, given his arousal, left very little to the imagination.

A normal guy – a _straight_ guy – would have been shocked out of his passion-induced stupor by the sight.  I, on the other hand, was desperately trying not to come in my baggy boxers.

I gasped and reached for Trowa as he leaned down toward me and crawled onto the bed.  Our lips fused as he straddled my hips and nudged me down.  I squirmed against him, seeking friction and touch and _anything!_  

Wait… _anything?_

I was jerked back to my senses when I felt a tug at the waistband of my underpants.  My hands, currently mapping the burn scars on Trowa’s back, paused and then reached for his arms.

“Wait.  Wait, wait, wait,” I panted.  “Trowa—”

He looked up and, had I had the breath for it, I would have gasped at the total desire in his eyes.  I wasn’t even sure if _Trowa_ was looking back at me.  He was 100% want.  _That_ thought elicited a very interesting and _interested_ reaction from a region I’d become increasingly aware of in recent days, but I forced myself to ask, “What’re we doin’ here, babe?”

I needed a game plan.  I needed veto power.  I was in no way ready to investigate some of the things I’d overheard being discussed (and, on two unfortunately memorable occasions, actually walked in on) during my misspent youth while raiding the streets with my gang.

Crouching above me, Trowa paused.  He blinked and some of the wild need in his expression retreated behind a thin veneer of control.  “We… we’re…”  His mouth snapped shut and he closed his eyes tightly.  “Nothing,” he replied evenly.  “We’re doing nothing.”

I grabbed for his arms before he could roll himself off of me.  “Hey, hold up,” I objected.  “If you want, I…  This is fine – I just…  I need to know…”

He froze above me and I saw hope lighten his expression and rekindled desire darken his eyes.  “Yes?”

“What do you expect?” I forced out, wanting to either get things back on track or to make a mad dash for another zip code before total flaming embarrassment destroyed me.

Tentatively, he opened his mouth.   “Nothing…” he began again and, despite having said the exact same word to me not five seconds ago, it sounded totally different.  His tone was as hesitant as his body language, holding himself braced above me like he was.  I watched his expression twitch with a slight frown as he searched for words.  “… invasive,” he reluctantly concluded with a flash of self-directed frustration.  “Nothing invasive.”

He might not have been thrilled with the choice of words – they did smack of mission-speak, after all – but I was now crystal clear on where we were headed with this and, as far as I was concerned—

“OK,” I agreed.  “I’m OK with that.”  I ran my hands up his arms to his shoulders and I didn’t even make it all the way to the center of his back before he was lowering himself over me again, groaning softly against my mouth, brushing, tasting, and then settling in for a long, deep exploration.

Oh, Christ.  I really, _really_ wanted to know where he’d learned how to kiss.  It was a toss-up as to whether I’d shake the hand of whoever-it-was or skin the bastard alive.  I was leaning towards the latter; Trowa was _mine._   The wave of possessiveness rolled through me unimpeded.  Trowa was married to _me_ and I would _kill_ anyone who dared to touch him.

_Mine!_

There was a sudden, frantic moment of wiggling and dangerously swinging knees as our shorts were kicked away and then it was all hot, slick-with-sweat skin and hypnotically rocking hips.  The press of his belly and mine against my trapped length became a kind of perfect torture.  I could feel him, equally hard, against the cradle between my hip bones and we brushed each other in passing with each thrust, wiggle, and roll.  It was like asteroids hurtling through space before colliding.

And twice as explosive.

I grasped at his shoulders, his back, his hips as he straddled my thighs and thrust-thrust-thrust and I was mindless with need, with the unforgettable image of his body rocking so sensually against mine.   God _damn_ but I’d _never_ seen Trowa like this.  His self-control was legendary and to see-feel-hear him let loose like this was igniting hydrogen in my blood.

“Duo…  Nuh, _Duo…”_   He was nearly silent, but it was that _nearly_ which sent me into the stratosphere.

“S-s-sorry.  Can’t wait,” I warned him, feeling the pressure build and build and _build…!_   “Trowa!” I gasped, spanning his back with my arms and clamping down like we were out-ship in zero G and he was my only tether to the airlock.  My back arched, my mouth fell open, and then everything just went—

Kablooie.

I was dimly aware of Trowa’s suddenly shallow and irregular thrusts and then a second jet of warmth surged over my skin, doubling the slippery, sticky mess between our bellies.

I melted back onto the mattress.  I was done.  Spent.  Sayonara, see y’all next year.

Oh.  My.  Fuckin’.  _God._

Trowa followed my example, draping himself over me, and commenced with alternately licking and nibbling at my earlobe.  “Mmm,” he offered.  From his tone, I was pretty sure his opinion was favorable.

I forced my hands to stir and I petted his bare hips in aimless circles.  “Yeah,” I replied, still trying to count the stars zooming around my head.  Really, there wasn’t much else to be said.  It defied words.  Or maybe it had simply melted my brain and the words were there but just had no footing in the mushy landscape of my liquefied mind.

I couldn’t tell you how long I just lay there.  Breathing had never been such a difficult and complicated activity before.  Eventually, Trowa roused himself and, with an admirable stretch, snagged a box of tissues from the nearby bureau and plopped them down within reach on the bed.  It was cleanup time.

He lent a hand and, between the two of us (oh, a pun!), the mess was dealt with satisfactorily.  The wads of used tissues were tossed over the side of the bed to be discarded later and, with a heave from arms that probably felt like overcooked pasta, Trowa slid gingerly off of me and wrestled his way beneath the covers.

As I joined him, I glanced over his shoulder at the alarm clock fixture set into the headboard and goggled.  Only twenty minutes had passed since we’d walked through the door.  Twenty minutes, but it felt like my life had been changed forever.  Beside me, Trowa shifted, rolling onto his side facing me, and mumbled, “Towels.”

“Yeah,” I agreed absently, noting that we’d used up damn near half the box of tissues mopping up.  Next time, towels were a must.  If there was a next time.  But the fluttering deep in my belly warned me that there probably would be.

Well.  I’d think about that later.

My skin still felt annoyingly sticky from sweat and, erm, other stuff, but to hell with it.  I’d grab a quick shower in the morning.  Utterly exhausted, I snuggled down onto the mattress beside Trowa’s warmth, let out a long sigh, and fell head-first into sleep.

I was knocked out of it ass-first, however.  Well, OK, not _really._   I’m over-dramatizing again.  Hamming it up, as Trowa would say.  Still, _you_ try going from a deep sleep to wide awake in the middle of the damn night and see how it feels.

In my opinion, it felt like getting your fool ass knocked the hell outta bed.

I didn’t move or twitch.  I just lay there and listened to the sound of soft, panting breaths beside me.  My companion – who I sensed was sitting up – stirred, gulped down a bit more air, held his breath deliberately until the count of ten and then slowly exhaled.  By that time, I’d figured out what was up.  I was in bed with Trowa; it was our first night in our new apartment; we’d crashed and burned after that spine-tingling round of mind-numbing sex; and now Trowa had likely just fought his way free of a nightmare.

“Hey,” I whispered, trying not to take it too personally that he’d had a bad dream during his first night as my husband.  “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” he rasped, his tone tinged with desperation, and then I felt the bed dip and rebound as he slid out of it.  I waited until he’d padded into the bathroom and then, with a sigh, I rolled over and turned on the lamp.  Squinting, I glared at the alarm clock – 3:47, just freakin’ _peachy_ – and then hunted up a T-shirt and some shorts.

I tossed our now-crunchy tissues into the nearest waste basket and picked up our clothes off the floor.  With nothing else to do, I sat the hell back down on the bed and just waited.

I heard water running and the sounds of splashing through the closed door and felt a little chagrinned.  How could I sit here and be all stupid and insecure when Trowa’d clearly just had the mother of all nightmares?

I was an ass.

When Trowa came back out, he was wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants and – as always – the necklace I’d given him.  That reassured me.

Seeing me awake and sitting up in bed, he seemed reluctant to join me.  I patted the tangle of covers and gave him a winning smile.  He caved.

“You wanna talk about it?” I asked as he gingerly sat down on his side of the bed.

“No.”

“OK.”  God knows I never wanted to talk about my nighttime doozies.  “You want some warm milk or a stiff drink?”

He paused and then a thread of humor and a dash of challenge entered his voice when he asked, “Just where would you get either one of those?”

“Well, I can’t, obviously.  But I’d do my best to describe them to you.”

Trowa turned toward me and arched a brow.  “You’re offering to narrate me downing a shot of whiskey?”

“I’m told my powers of description are epic.”

That won me a soft chuckle.  Trowa lay back down and I reached over to shut off the lamp before joining him.  I didn’t ask him if he’d dreamed of the past or the dead, as I often did.  I didn’t remind him that it’d only been a dream.  I didn’t lie to him and tell him that nightmares have no power over you, that they can’t hurt you.  They did and they could and those were just cold, hard facts.

Instead, I reached for his hand and suppressed a wince when his fingers clutched mine almost too tightly in the dark.  I didn’t let go, though, and neither did he.

I dozed.  I drifted.  Next to me, I sensed Trowa doing the same.  Getting back to sleep was more work than it had been earlier.  For obvious reasons.  Eventually, I did nod off.  I know this only because when I opened my eyes later, Trowa was bodily wrapped around me and I couldn’t recall when that had happened.  I was lying on my side with Trowa spooned behind me, his arm clamped over my waist and the heavy weight of one of his long legs pinning mine.

Hm.  It looked like he and I might have more in common than a shitty childhood and the tendency to stretch out our meals to the max.  I was starting to wonder if his nightmares might be much the same as mine, filled with the death of innocents and allies, laced with regret and fury.

Still, to my knowledge, I’d never glomped anyone in my sleep yet here I was, very clearly being used as a body pillow.  I was pretty sure it’d take a backhoe to pry him off me.

I closed my eyes.  I tried to sleep, I really did, but I was sweating from our combined body heat and I felt vaguely trapped, restrained as I was.  And then there was the wakeup call nudging me in the hip.

Opening my eyes, I let out a sigh and wondered what time it was.  Before I could crane my neck to get a look at the clock, I felt Trowa sigh in his sleep and snuggle even closer to me.  And, really, how could I justify disturbing the guy when he was finally catching some much-needed Z’s?  So I just gave it the hell up and closed my eyes again.  I’d get up whenever I got around to it.  As usual.

It was not the usual morning, however.  I woke up again – and grumped incoherently about it – when Trowa got up to get ready for work.  He let me sleep, though, all nice and comfy when he could have stolen the blankets and/or snapped a wet towel at me.  He didn’t do any of those things.  Instead, he sat down on the edge of the bed next to me and waited for me to blink open my eyes, which I did with a sigh of resignation.

He was already in his Cleaning Guy gear so that meant one thing: “You headin’ out?” I mumbled.

He nodded.

“OK, then.  Rock out and clean on, man.”  I snuggled back into my pillow.

“Don’t I get a goodbye kiss?”

My eyes popped open.  I rolled back over and gave him a suspicious look.  “From this mouth?  Pretty sure you’ll need hazmat gear.  I didn’t get around to brushing last night.”

He chuckled, leaned down, and pressed a chaste kiss to my lips.  “That’ll tide me over,” he informed me, and then he was up and out the door.

I listened to the front door slide open and then, a moment later, whisper shut.

“Shit,” I bitched to the universe.  How the hell was I supposed to get back to sleep _now?_   Between that so-not-enough-of-a-kiss kiss, Trowa’s tacit promise to deliver more later, and the sight of his khaki-covered ass walking out the door, I was never gonna get a moment’s rest.

It was with a certain amount of grim determination that I flipped back the covers and rolled out of bed.  And it was with a certain foreboding of doom that I accepted the fact that Trowa in all His Sexiness was probably going to be the death of me.  Hell, if anyone could turn a straight man gay, it’d be him…

…and I was a little afraid that it might already be too late for me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this story, I’m assuming that Trowa and Duo (and Heero, while we’re on the topic) never had the time or inclination to fool around and gain sexual experience prior to this. I mean, Quatre and Wufei had a fairly normal childhood, so maybe they’d kissed a few girls before they got involved with the war (and Wufei was married, but that was hardly a love match, but still…). Anyway, I just can’t see the same kind of experiences for this version of Heero, Duo, and Trowa. Nor can I see them fooling around during the war and the aftermath (i.e., their eternal community service at WEI). Hence the lack of sophisticated sexual hijinks. Duo and Trowa are 20-year-old guys, so I’m assuming that, like most inexperienced guys their age, they’re pretty quick off the mark. On the plus side, thanks to their youth, they have fantastic recovery time. Heh.


	6. Nostalgic for Disaster

# Chapter 6: Nostalgic for Disaster

_The only thing I haven’t done yet is die…_

 

Work on Monday morning was, well, y’know… it was work on Monday morning.  That’s kinda one of the staples of modern life, right?  I did my little dance at Wufei’s cubicle, ordered Heero to grow a sense of optimism, warned Quatre away from the deep end of the bureaucratic pool, and kept my ass the hell outta Trowa’s little temple of temptation.  Somewhere between brushing my teeth and oohing-and-ahhing over Bret’s monster log photos from his fishing trip two weekends ago, I’d decided that if Trowa was going to continue onward with his campaign to make me lust unrepentantly after him, then I was going to be as obnoxious as possible about it.  Oh, yeah.  We’d see who caved first.  We’d just see about that.

“What are you drinking?” Trowa wondered aloud, eying my fizz du jour warily.

I hadn’t tried to avoid him for lunch, so here we were, contemplating the bright blue carbonated beverage I’d just punched out of the vending machine.  We were very obviously _not_ talking about last night… or the kiss from this morning… or the implied _more_ that was probably gonna happen later.

Oh, yeah.  Denial wasn’t just some overrated riverside resort area in Egypt.  We were up to our unmentionables in it right smack dab in the middle of the eight floor of purgatory.

My grin was lopsided with mockery.  “This?” I asked waving the bottle of blue bubbly back and forth.  “I have no idea what the hell this is, but it’s guaranteed to turn my tongue blue.”

Trowa snorted, his lips twitching.  “Are there any other body parts you’d like to dye a primary color?”

Despite the fact that I was on edge today for more than one reason, I silently marveled at our ability to sit here and banter like old beer buddies.  Was it just me or was our marriage just freakin’ bizarre?  And we were still in the “honeymoon” phase.

“Well, there’s the clichéd ‘red-handed’,” I mused aloud, cranking open the bottle cap and releasing a burst of carbonated pressure.

“And ‘yellow-bellied’,” Trowa offered with dry amusement.

I took a swig of my Kool Razzberry Rush and manfully held back the grimace of disgust.  Man!  What the hell kinda crap did they put in these drinks and why in the hell didn’t some government public health office shut these people down already?  I was pretty sure I was drinking fizzified radiator fluid.

Despite that, I gave Trowa a knowing grin.  “And you’re the green-eyed monster?” I teased.

Those green eyes – well I could only see the one, but I assumed they tended to work in concert – narrowed.  Trowa leaned forward, very deliberately bared his teeth, and then he freakin’ _growled_ at me.

I just about knocked my own chair over laughing.  Damn but it was easy to like Trowa.  It was easy to _more than_ like him.  I could tell this little contest of ours was going to be one hell of an _interesting_ challenge.  And I wasn’t anywhere near ready to cry “uncle.”

“Hey, babe,” I inquired after I’d wound down.

“Yes, darling Duo?”  He ruined the deadpan delivery with a playful smirk.

“How’s my tongue?”  I stuck it out at him.

He shook his head, breathing out a chuckle.  “Blue- _ish.”_

“Awesome.  One down; only a couple hundred body parts left to go.”

Instead of Trowa joshing me about my choice of pastime, he inquired, “And just how many people are connected to the body parts you’re plotting to… dye?”

“It’s a short list,” I consoled him.

He didn’t look reassured.  “Hm.”

I took another swig of the swill and then, leaning closer, I purred softly, “Wanna help me find out if this stuff is, ah, _transferable?”_

Trowa’s visible eyebrow arched with wry amusement.  “Don’t you mean ‘contagious’?”

“Hah.  You only wish I was contagious.”

“I thought we were talking about your cosmetic coloring.”

I shrugged and grinned unrepentantly.  “Hey.  Love me, love my blue tongue.”

“Hm,” Trowa replied on a quiet purr of his own.  “You have a point.”

Shocked as I was by not only my sudden victory in our war of words, but also by what he’d implied in the process of forfeiting, I didn’t even bump him back when I felt his leg rub deliberately against mine beneath the break room table.

I had to remind myself _yet again_ that Trowa was just doing what was necessary for the good of the mission and, at this point, maintaining our cover of hormonal newlyweds was the priority.  Still, there could not be a better actor in the whole damn Earth Sphere.  Trowa was top shelf, as far as that goes.

Returning to our respective work routines at one p.m. was just as dissatisfying as our parting had been that morning.   Our brief exchange, which consisted of a “See ya later” and the following acknowledgement of that declaration – “You know where I live”, was just so painfully full of potential torment that I _burned_  to take it a step further.  But really, what could you say in the middle of the office in front of freakin’ everybody?   _“I’ll race you to the bed, hot stuff”_ just wasn’t kosher.  _“You rocked my world last night; let’s have an encore”_ wasn’t much better.

Part of me was just frickin’ gob smacked that I even wanted to be with him That Way _again._   But another part of me, a part which wore combat boots and carried a garrote and smiled a grin full of sharp teeth, was rolling up his black shirt sleeves and cracking his knuckles, preparing to have an awesome time kicking my metaphorical ass.

 _Focus, Maxwell,_ Shinigami warned me in a scary sing-song.

Still, I was allowed one more glimpse of my own husband, wasn’t I?

In the midst of forcing myself to take another drink of blue bile, I put off that oncoming sip – cap in one hand and bottle in the other – and glanced back over my shoulder.  I was still moving in the general direction of my cube as I savored the sight of Trowa Barton strolling toward his cleaning closet.  Reaching his destination, he paused, turned, and suddenly our gazes met.  Inexplicably, it felt as if I were moving toward him rather than further away.

And then—!

_Smack!_

_Splash!_

_Fizz…_

“Oh, shit!” I yelped, feeling the ice-cold liquid splatter my hand, arm, chest, and even my chin.  I glanced, uncomprehending, at the bottle clutched in my right hand… and then I noticed the fact that I was still holding the cap in my left.

Fan-freakin’-tastic.

I reluctantly turned my attention away from my soaked clothes and toward the obstacle I’d just plowed into.

My boss glowered back at me.

“Um, whoops,” I offered, cringing.  “Sorry, man.”  He didn’t look all that mollified.  “That’s probably not gonna stain,” I volunteered lamely as he tried – and failed – to incinerate me with his gaze.  Hell, I’ve survived Heero this long and my supervisor had _nuthin’_ on him.

Still, it was a good bet I wouldn’t be getting nominated for WEI’s Employee-of-the-Year.

Without a word, he pivoted on his heel and stalked down the aisle, disappearing into the men’s bathroom.  Now, yeah, the collision had probably been my fault, but there was no way in everlasting hell I was gonna follow him in there.  In all honesty, it wasn’t as if he’d gotten frickin’ _drenched_ like I had.  That little sprinkle on his light blue dress shirt was hardly enough to bother with.  I, on the other hand, was gonna be a walking ball of half-dried, sticky syrup in T-minus fifteen minutes.

I sighed.

“Duo?” Trowa called softly from right behind me.  He must have seen the whole embarrassing thing.

“Thanks for warning me,” I grumbled.

He retorted, “As if there was time.”

Yeah.  That’s how these sorts of things tended to happen: sudden-like.  I summoned a sarcastic smile and informed him, “That’s what happens when you engage in unprotected beverage transport!”  I held up the now half-empty bottle, blueness dripping from my suit sleeve and shirt cuff onto the carpet tiles.

Despite the fact that I was clearly making a mess that he’d have to clean up, Trowa’s lips twitched.  He didn’t outright laugh at me, though, so I guess that counted for something.

“C’mon,” he urged, nudging me toward the janitorial closet.

Knowing that there was a water faucet as well as a plethora of other things that would aid me in my quest to renew my cleanliness, I stumbled my ass in there without much more prompting.  When Trowa moved as if to squeeze himself inside with me, I warned him off.

“It’s cool, babe.  I got it.”  He paused on the threshold, but hovered uncertainly.  Well, as uncertain as Trowa gets.  It was more of a psychic vibe I picked up on than an actual worried expression.  I continued, “’Sides, _both_ of us aren’t gonna fit in here with your crash cart.”

“We did before,” he daringly pointed out and that little smirk of his joined the conversation.

I gave him a wink.  I was onto him.  Oh, yes I was.  “Yeah, but now there’s an actual chance that we’ll get, y’know, stuck together.  Literally.”  The soda was already starting to congeal, adhering itself to my skin in an itchy, sugary film.

Clearly sensing my nonnegotiable refusal, Trowa remarked, “In that case, we’ll try your transference experiment another time.”

“You can count on it!” I enthused, glad that he’d let it go without more of a fuss.  He leaned in and grabbed a spray bottle of carpet cleaner and a rag.

“Paper towels,” he informed me, pointing to a shelf beside my head.  “Hand soap.”  Another point to another shelf.  “Cold water only,” he concluded, gesturing at the facet.

“Roger that,” I said and he left me to it.

I didn’t waste time admiring the scenery.  As soon as the door shut behind me, I got the hell to work.  I enjoyed Trowa’s hospitality, helping myself to the necessities as I dealt with the mess on myself as best I could.

I passed him as I headed back to my desk and noticed the used rag in his hand.  Damn, he’d just cleaned up my puddle for me.  Head bowed in contrition, I said, “Thanks.  I owe you one.”

He appeared rather happy to hear it and, smiling softly, replied, “I look forward to collecting on that.”

Yeah, I’ll just bet he was.

When I plunked my ass down in my chair, clothes still sticky and blue- _ish,_ my boss, who had returned from the restroom, pointedly ignored me.  I ignored him back – hell, even I knew when _not_ to rock the frickin’ boat.  I set the bottle of gunk on my desk and got the hell to work.

Although I had every reason to make a mad dash for the elevators at quitting time, I stayed at my desk, playing with the now-safely-capped bottle of blue stuff.  I was waiting for everyone to clean up and go before I went to find Trowa and offer to help him finish up whatever he was buffing, mopping, or dusting.  He found me first, however.

“Looks like I’ll be dragging you into a shower… again,” he remarked softly, reminding me of our after-swim bathing session on Saturday.  Jesus.  Had that only been two whole days ago?  Christ.

“Inviting yourself to join me?” I teased back, collecting the jacket I’d discarded after lunch and my pop bottle.

Trowa’s gaze zeroed in on the latter’s presence.  “You didn’t dump that out?”

I gave him a look of outrage.  “No way!  That’d be like giving up and I want _revenge,_ dammit.”

I got to see Trowa’s wry smirk.  It’d been conspicuously absent for the last few days, pushed aside by a variety of his sexily amused grins.  “You want revenge for walking around with an open bottle of Kool Razzberry Crush and then _not_ watching where you’re going?” he checked.

“It’s Razzberry _Rush,”_ I corrected petulantly, determined to find some error in his reasoning, no matter how superficial.

He laughed softly as the office emptied around us.  “Only you, Duo,” he rumbled affectionately.  “Only you.”

We followed the herd toward the elevators and endured the ride down.  Catching sight of me as I crossed the lobby, Bret called out with embarrassing candidness: “What in the world happened to you, Mr. Maxwell?”  He then noticed the half empty bottle in my hand and chuckled.  “You know you’re not supposed to shake those before you open them, right?”

“Tell that to _him,”_ I retorted, nodding at Trowa and directing all the blame his way.

We were nearly to the doors at the point, so Bret didn’t offer a parting comment.  Trowa, however, quietly observed, “So now it’s my fault?”

“You’re the reason I crashed and totaled my, um, beverage.”

“Ogling me again?” he teased, placing a hand at the small of my back as we crossed the drive between the buildings.

I snorted to cover up the fact that he’d pretty much lined up my biggest weakness in his crosshairs.  I fought back.  “What makes you think you have anything ogle-worthy?”

“This,” he replied and I watched, helplessly, as he lifted a hand to the collar of his shirt and deftly undid the first button.  When his hand drifted down to the next in the row, I gulped.

But he paused there and, teasingly, concluded, “Enough said.”

Really, what could I say to that?  He’d caught me red-handed, so to speak.

It was just as well that we were still following the herd because I might have done something emotionally demonstrative in the elevator if we’d been alone.  It was a toss-up between flipping him the bird and knocking his ass to the floor before I freakin’ climbed down his throat.

Ahem.

The elevator pinged, delivering us to our floor.  We strolled to our door.  We scanned.  We swiped.  And as soon as the door whispered shut behind us, we just sort of crashed into each other like high tide against towering cliffs.  I couldn’t tell you who was the wall of rock and who was the surging ocean.  It didn’t really matter at that moment, anyway.

What mattered was I _finally_ had him right where I wanted him, right where I’d _been_ wanting him all damn day.

I groaned as he pulled away and applied his mouth to my neck.  “You missed a spot,” he murmured and proceeded to suck the purported droplet from my skin.

I had no proof there actually _was_ a trace of the blue bilk on my neck, and I wouldn’t put it past Trowa to make up a story about one being there.  “Excuses, excuses,” I complained, stumbling us toward the bathroom.  With one hand, I gripped the back of his neck, urging him forward as I shuffled backward blindly.  In the other hand, I clutched the pop bottle.

“Leave it,” he growled, nibbling at my ear.  It wasn’t until he reached for the Razzberry-whatever in my grasp that I replied.

“No,” I breathed, turning toward his mouth and biting his lower lip.  “It’s coming with us.”  I rubbed my hips against his.  “Color transference,” I reminded him in a mischievous tone.

“I object,” he retorted, reaching for my shirtfront and leaning in to tease me with tiny licks and nibbles on my panting mouth.

“Objection noted.”  I grunted as I came up against the wall.  Damn, I’d missed the bathroom doorway entirely.  Trowa didn’t seem to notice my shamefully bad piloting.  He leaned in, pressing against me, and braced himself with one arm while wrapping the other around my waist.  I reached past him and tossed the bottle into the bathroom sink, grinning when I hit my target.  Yeah, my navigation was wonky, but at least my aim was on.

And then I was back to having an armful of hip-rolling, hot-handed, panting Trowa.  Christ, he was all over me like we were counting down to the end of the world, like he’d suffered through the entire day because he hadn’t been able to touch me, like he couldn’t stop himself.

To tell you the truth, I didn’t really want him to stop.  Hell, I was on the verge of wrapping my legs around his hips just to see what he’d do about it.

And then the doorbell chimed.

“Ignore it,” he rasped, his hands reaching for my hips and I actually did raise one of my legs then, hooking my knee over his hip and earning a growl of approval.

I had one arm around his shoulders and the other was popping the buttons loose on his shirt and—

The doorbell chimed for the second time.

“Please,” he breathed against my mouth before kissing me deeply.  My eyes slid shut in surrender.  I wasn’t sure if he meant “Please ignore it” or something a little more blatantly X-rated.  I decided I didn’t care.  I liked it when Trowa said “please.”  I liked it a _lot._

_Ping!  Ping!  Ping!  Ping!_

Holy hell.  Someone – namely, the person now freakin’ _leaning_ on our Goddamn doorbell – was gonna die a slow, drawn-out, agonizing death.

“Let’s kill the bastard,” I hissed, rocking my hips against his.

 _“Yes,”_ he agreed wholeheartedly.

_Ping!  Ping!  Ping!_

The hell!  _Come back in twenty minutes,_ I wanted to shout but didn’t.  It wouldn’t have done any good.  The apartment – like all the others in this damn pile – was freakin’ sound-proofed.

“We’ll finish this later,” Trowa promised, glaring down at me.

I felt my whole body flush at the heat in his gaze.  “Oh, yeah.”

Reluctantly, I peeled myself off of him and let him stomp – well, OK, it wasn’t quite a _stomp,_ but it was Trowa’s version of it – over to the door.  At the door release panel, he had to pause, take a deep breath, and assess the state of his pants.  He scowled and untucked his shirt so that the wrinkled tails would cover the bulge tenting his fly.  As he reached out to swipe his card and open the door, I ducked into the bedroom.  I wasn’t hiding, not really.  I _did_ have to grab a change of clothes.

“What do you want, Quatre?”

I grinned at Trowa’s disgruntled tone.  Damn, but if someone had told me this time last week, that Trowa had a temper and that he was freakin’ _steaming_ with sensuality, I would have laughed my fool ass off.  This time last week, I hadn’t even given a thought to how he would kiss, if he even _liked_ kissing, or how he’d react to being interrupted in the middle of doing it.

You can learn a lot about someone in a week.

The sound of Quatre’s voice cut through my grinning amusement.  “Is Duo here with you?” he checked, his tone the embodiment of innocence.

Before I could call out, Trowa growled, “Of course he is.  Why do you think it took me so long to answer the door?”

I was pretty sure Quatre was smirking because I could frickin’ _hear_ it.  “What’s up, Q?” I called from the bedroom, not bothering to abandon my search for clean clothes.

“Uh, it’s dinner time?” he prompted us.

“Save us a pair of seats,” Trowa ordered him in a tone that was very final.

Quatre laughed.  “I don’t think so.  If I walk out of here, it’ll be the last I see of you both until tomorrow morning.”

He was probably right about that.  If I had my way with Trowa or vice versa, we’d probably be too exhausted to bother seeking out food afterward.

Our mutual menace – er, I mean _friend_ – further argued, “You both need to keep up your strength.”

And because that was true – _very_ true, considering the mission-related plans I’d made for this evening _following_ dinner – I had to reluctantly agree.  Clothing in hand, I moved into the doorway.  I tried not to laugh at the tableau on the apartment threshold: Quatre was smirking his lily-white ass off and Trowa was standing there with his hands fisted, looking thoroughly consternated.

“Um, I got slimed at the office today,” I informed our guest, gesturing to myself.  Quatre’s eyes widened at the overabundance of blue _stuff_ staining the right side of my dress shirt.  Indicating the clothes I’d just picked out, I explained, “Gotta get changed and then I’ll be right with you.”

“I’ll wait,” Quatre happily offered and I thought Trowa was actually going to give in to the urge to strangle him.

“Babe, you wanna eat in your sexy cleaner duds or what?”  My teasing tone worked and Trowa took another calming breath before relaxing.

“Give us a minute,” he told Quatre and started toward me and the bedroom beyond.

“I hope it takes longer than that,” our super CEO muttered and, I swear to God, Trowa almost turned right around and _ejected_ him from our place.

I, on the other hand, chuckled darkly and informed him, “Oh, yeah.  A minute is not _nearly_ long enough.”

 Quatre finally shut the hell up, which was a definite improvement.  There wasn’t much I could do about his shit-eating grin, though.  Trowa brushed past me and went straight to his wardrobe.  We changed clothes in record time and, just as I started to head for the living room, he caught my arm gently and whispered, “After dinner…”

“Uh huh,” I agreed, leaning in so I could whisper in his ear.  “We’re gonna be busy.”

“Good.”

He didn’t kiss me and I didn’t kiss him.  Hell, we both knew that if we got started again, Quatre would have to call for reinforcements to pry us the hell outta the freakin’ bedroom.

We were just about the first ones in line for tonight’s chow – which I think was something vaguely Chinese, but I just didn’t care enough to pay much attention – and Heero and Wufei never did join the three of us.  I guessed Heero was probably in the gym and Wufei was either sparring with him, doing one of his katas, or meditating up on the third floor.  I suspected that Quatre was going to head back across the street to work after dinner and I wondered if we’d have a different escort tomorrow night.  Were the guys going to treat our nutritional needs as some kind of mission?

Oh, wow.  Just freakin’ _wow._   Yeah, I didn’t know what to think of that.

Quatre, the sickeningly happy bastard, made both Trowa and I actually engage him in conversation as we ate.  He asked us pointed questions and stared expectantly until the one of us he was speaking to had to stop shoveling food into his mouth and answer.  Quatre has a talent for being obnoxious in that it’s-good-for-you kind of way.  If it had been just Trowa and I eating together, we’d have been done in under five minutes and back in the elevator, itching to tear each other’s clothes off.  With Quatre holding court, dinner took fifteen minutes and then he rode the elevator back up with us, saying he wanted to change into something more comfortable before he trekked back across the street.

Don’t let that innocent look fool you; the guy’s a sadist, pure and simple.

But the downtime was necessary.  It woke me up to the fact that Trowa and I weren’t married so we could screw each other silly and pass out in a sweaty tangle on the bed.  (Although, _damn._   Just… _damn!)_   We were married because I needed backup, because it’d been four days since I’d planted the microtransmitter and Howard was probably standing by, waiting for my signal.  If I dithered around any longer, the guys he was borrowing get-outta-jail goodies from were gonna start doubting the capabilities of us former pilots.  Hell, if we couldn’t pull together a distraction on familiar territory, then what good would we be to them and their cause?  If they started thinking like that, then our extraction wasn’t gonna happen at all and _that_ was not acceptable.

I felt kinda bad knowing I’d be putting Trowa off yet again, but the mission had to come first.  And I had every intention of making it up to him later.

I think he sensed my change in mood because, after we wished Quatre well and our apartment door slid shut behind us, he didn’t tackle me to the floor.  He didn’t even touch me.  It was kind of like last night all over again: he just stood there and waited for my move.

I made it.

Turning to him, I placed a hand over his heart and then slid my palm up until my fingers brushed the onyx pendant thing on the leather cord he was still wearing.  “I need you,” I whispered.  I felt him shiver.  I saw the flash of regret in his eyes.  Yeah, work before play sucked.  There was no gettin’ around that inconvenient fact.

“Shower with me?” I invited.

Eyes clear of passion, he leaned forward and kissed me.  It was deep, but it was measured and almost wary.  In a way, it felt cold.

“Lead the way,” he responded and his words were devoid of emotion.

This time, when I led him toward the bathroom, my navigation was up to spec.  After he crossed the threshold, I closed the door behind him and turned on the hot water tap in the tub.  Once it was steaming, I flipped on the shower and slid the shower doors shut.  I then faced my partner, both of us standing in the middle of a bathroom filling with steam, fully dressed.  I had my black turtleneck on and my black cargo pants.  I was wearing my favorite black boots.  Trowa looked me up and down and I saw it in his eyes when he accepted the fact that I was ready for my mission, whatever it was.

I deliberately stepped close enough to embrace him and then I looked up.  Above our heads was a removable panel in the ceiling.  I’d heard about this lovely feature when one of my coworkers had once complained of a leak somewhere in the plumbing.  The following day, he’d mentioned how the repair guy had fixed it by climbing into a crawlspace through a panel just like this one.  The dinky little efficiency apartments that had been given to us former Gundam pilots didn’t have this wonderful convenience.  I’d checked.

So, I’d known I’d have to find a way into a regular apartment in order to stage a diversion or cause mayhem undetected.  It hadn’t been until last Tuesday that I’d realized I could probably _move_ into one of them if I had a valid reason.  Like getting married.

Trowa had been the perfect candidate for the detailed, multi-layered op that had been stewing at the back of my mind for years.  I’d need his skills at infiltration to make our cover story believable, and – later on – I’d need his steady presence and ability to maintain his balance in tricky situations.  Hell, his acrobatic skills might even come in handy.  _If_ I was successful in getting the cavalry to ride to our rescue, that is.

“Help me take this off?” I whispered, knowing that if anyone was listening in, it would sound like a completely different request.  Just like I was hoping that the steam from the shower would confuse any heat sensing devices scanning the room and fog up any hidden camera lenses.

From one of the many pockets in my slacks, I removed a contraband letter opener – when I’d hit Wufei up for help on Friday, I’d snitched it from the desk of someone in HR (who’d _clearly_ forgotten that, as per the employee handbook, “no dangerous or potentially dangerous items were to be brought into the administrative offices”) – and handed it over to Trowa.  It wasn’t perfect and it would probably scratch the panel, but I was hoping we’d be long gone by the time anyone thought to check.  I braced myself on the edge of the bathtub – careful of the increasing condensation – and the sink counter opposite.  It was awkward as hell, but Trowa needed the only available fixture in the room that offered a perfectly stable surface to work from.

He climbed up on the closed toilet seat and slid the letter opener into the crack between the panel and the ceiling.

“Yeah, that’s it,” I encouraged, suppressing a smirk at the suggestive words.  Little did any potential peeping Toms know, instead of doing something that normal newlyweds _would_ be doing, we were taking the next step in busting the hell outta here.  My lips stretched into a grimly anticipatory smile.

“Like this?” Trowa asked softly as he slid the letter opener into place.  The sound of his voice covered up the noise of the metal sliding against the bathroom paneling.

He settled his weight, balancing himself on the steam-slick surface of the toilet seat, and wrenched his arms up.  The panel popped out and I gave a well-timed cry of surprise.  It landed in my arms and I waited for Trowa to climb down and take it from me before I challenged Murphy’s Law by trying to get down unaided.  As he set it aside and out of the way, I slipped the pop bottle into one of my larger pockets.  I then tucked my braid down the back of my shirt.  It itched, but at least it wouldn’t get caught on anything.

When Trowa turned back around, he studied me long and hard.  “Are you all right?”

I knew what he was asking me.  Don’t get me wrong; I _wanted_ to invite him to come along – after all, what I had planned was _bound_ to be fun (or a variety thereof) – but I needed him here just in case someone came to check on us.  “Give me a hand up?”

He motioned for me to get on top of the commode, which I did, and then he bent down so I could hook my knees over his shoulders.  I managed it by grasping the edge of the hole in the ceiling and then he stood up, positioning me directly beneath it.  I pulled myself up, thankful that I hadn’t had to do this part on my one-some.  I could have done it, but it would have been extremely tough and I would have expended far too much effort just getting the hell started on my quest.  Trowa’s hands very helpfully pushed me up off of his shoulders.  I felt his firm grip on my thighs first, then knees, and finally feet as I hauled myself into the crawlspace.

I wiggled into the pitch-black realm above the apartment and retrieved the flashlight I’d borrowed from our apartment’s emergency kit.  Clicking it on, I swept it around, noting the fantastic fact that there were no walls separating me from where I needed to go.  There were plenty of cement columns and metal pipes and air ducts twisting between the floors, but I could see what looked like the elevator shaft straight ahead.

I leaned back over the hole, getting a faceful of steam, and gave Trowa a thumbs up followed by a countdown.  I signed at him that I’d be back in thirty minutes.  He nodded and I started to squirm away, but suddenly he held up a hand, and I halted reflexively.  He then freakin’ _leaped_ up and caught the edge of the access opening.  I blinked at him as he levered himself over the rim, leaned closer and—

I expected one of those hard, Hollywood lip mashes.  You know the ones that always happen in those big budget action movies, right before the hero heads off to risk his life and save the day?  I braced myself for one of those.  Trowa, however, had other ideas.  His lips met mine and it was so soft, so warm and tender.  A much better kiss than the one he’d given me a few minutes ago out in the living room.  This one made me tingle.  It made me freakin’ _melt._   I did the whole eyes-closed-and-sighing-breath thing.  Damnitall, that probably made me the damsel instead of the hero.

Just my frickin’ luck.

It only lasted a moment before Trowa leaned away and dropped silently back down onto the bathroom floor.  This time, when he raised a hand, he signaled for me to go.  Mind numb and body still tingling, I went.

I had a job of it putting that kiss out of my mind, but I did.  After a few deep breaths to focus my thoughts and with finding my way through the crawlspace-slash-labyrinth demanding all of my attention, I managed it. 

I squeezed soundlessly over an arching section of ductwork, moving like a shadow, like death itself.  God, I’d missed this.  Infiltration with the intent to do damage was my personal schtick.  Going as long as I had without pulling off another sneak attack had been making me feel like a damn amputee.  It was good to be back doing what I was meant to do, flashing back to my rebel roots, y’know?

Moving through however many years of dust was not fun and, more than once, I had to stop and bite back a sneeze, but I wormed my way to the elevator shaft in record time.  Now I just had to go down.  This was the tricky part.  The elevator itself looked like it was waiting on the first floor.  If someone who lived above my current position called the elevator – and I was pretty sure they would since it was still officially dinnertime an’ all – I’d have to make sure I didn’t get creamed by the passing, um, car.  Cab?  Room-thing?  Whatever the hell you called the passenger-carrying part of the elevator.

Anyway.

I spied an access ladder recessed in the shaft on the right-hand wall.  Hah.  Bingo.

Glancing down at the elevator cab, I calculated how long it would take me to swing my ass over to the ladder.  Until I was hunkered down on the rungs, it would be open season on Duos.

All was quiet, though.  I moved into position, took a deep breath and—

_Shit-damn-holyfuck!_

In the near-darkness, I just about missed the rung when I reached for it, lost my balance, and would have tumbled down the shaft and crashed onto the roof of the elevator if my other hand hadn’t managed to find some traction against the wall.

Great.  Now I was stretched out like the proverbial lamb at slaughter.

And because God hates me, that was exactly the moment when I heard the elevator doors open and someone climb inside.

Oh, hell.

It was all or nuthin’ now.  Someone was about to get a ride upstairs and if I didn’t want to be on it, I needed to move.   _Now._

I braced my foot on the ledge I was leaning over, fitting the edge between the tread, and then I freakin’ _lunged_ across open space.  I caught the rungs in teeth-gritted silence, and held on for dear life as the elevator climbed upward.  I squished myself into the available space and held perfectly still as the cab was pulled up past my feet, my legs, my back, my head… and kept going.  Whew.  That was a close one.

I didn’t wait for it to stop and make a return trip.  I freakin’ _boogied._

I went quietly although not silently.  I was pretty sure there weren’t any security systems in here.  If there were, there wasn’t a whole helluvalot I could do about it.  This was pretty much a one-shot deal.  Sooner or later, someone would think to check our apartment and make sure all the access panels were welded shut.  I figured it’d be sooner rather than later.  The only reason for the oversight that I could figure was sheer dumb luck combined with complacency.  But, it would eventually occur to someone to check and then they’d see the scratch marks and… yeah.  Game the hell over.

The basement was five freakin’ floors down and my wrists and ankles were objecting mightily by the time I got there.  Above me, someone on another floor called the elevator and I got the hell to work opening the doors.

It was a risk forcing my way in through the main entrance, but I wasn’t budgeted for taking all freakin’ night to get the job done.  Our ration of hot water wasn’t gonna last forever and when it ran out and it’d be hard to hide the fact that there was only one person’s heat signature in our bathroom.  Speaking of which, I hoped Trowa had replaced the panel.  If not, somebody was surely going to wonder where all that damn steam was going.

As it was too late for regrets and second-guessing now, I pressed onward.

Thank God for my regular weight training.  I bothered with it so that I’d have something in the way of offense at my disposal just in case Heero ever did get me in one of those mythical, unbreakable headlocks.  Now, I used my strength to pry open the elevator doors.  Not all the way, of course, but just enough to squeeze through.

Fingers aching and back muscles straining, I took care of business, slipping inside and letting the doors snap shut behind me.  It was just as dark down here as it had been in the crawlspace above our apartment, so I dug out the flashlight again and did a thorough, sweeping scan of the area.

All clear.

Recalling the schematics and building layout that I’d downloaded what now seemed like half a lifetime ago, I ghosted toward the far wall, where I knew I’d find a veritable forest of circuit breakers.  I also found the standard chain link fence between me and my goal.  The padlock was joke and I had it off in about ten seconds, which was good because I was starting to go over budget on time.  I wasn’t sure what Trowa would do if I was late, but I didn’t think it’d be pretty.

Access (unwillingly) granted, now came the delicate stage of the operation.  I removed the pop bottle from the pocket in my pant leg and carefully twisted off the cap.  Considering how damn many circuit breaker boxes there were, I had to conserve my resources.  Moving from one to the other, holding the flashlight in my mouth, I opened each metal cover and dripped fizzing blue stuff on the connections and wires.

I forced myself _not_ to count the seconds as I worked.  I focused completely on my task, slowly emptying the bottle on each electrical system and then shutting the breaker box doors behind me.  By the time I was done, my eyes were watering and (despite the bandana I’d thought to tie over my nose and mouth) my lungs were burning.  I ducked down and recapped the bottle, returning it to my pocket, and got my ass the hell outta there.

Chain link gate closed and locked, I booked it back to the elevator doors.  Getting them open from this side was a bitch and a quarter, but I got my ass into the elevator shaft, losing only a layer or two of tooth enamel due to enthusiastically gritted teeth.  I was panting a bit and my shoulders were screaming at me, but I didn’t pause.  I started my climb back up, flattening myself when the elevator rumbled past, and swung my aching ass onto the ledge of the crawlspace I’d nearly tumbled off of earlier.

I was late.  I knew I was late, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.  I didn’t dare speed up and risk someone hearing a booted footstep over their living room.  The distance between where I was and the outline of yellow light I could see ahead just seemed to get further and further away as I moved, stretching out like chewing gum.  It didn’t help that my eyes were still watering and stinging.  I desperately wanted to reach up and rub them, but I quashed the reflex.

I tugged the bandana off and breathed a sigh of relief when I made it to the edge of the slightly-ajar panel and tapped softly on it.  In the next instant, I was blinded by a searing flash of light.  The bathroom light was one of those typical, softly-glowing-and-warm deals, but it didn’t _look_ all that damn soft after forty minutes in near-pitch-black darkness.  I hissed along with the water still running in the shower.  The no-longer-trapped steam billowed upward and adhered to my eyes, making them feel gummy.

Super.

I reached blindly through the painfully bright opening and felt Trowa’s hands grasp mine.  Trusting him to catch me, I released his hand and rolled, slipping feet first back into the room.  His hands guided me down as I squirmed and wiggled.  He told me with a touch that my feet, my knees, my hips were clear.  I carefully transferred my weight from my elbows to my hands and reverse-pull-upped myself down.

His hands steadied me and kept me from falling on my ass on the slippery floor tiles.  I immediately turned toward the sink and cranked open the cold water tap.  Behind me, I heard Trowa replace the panel.  I knew should be helping him, but I was kinda getting a little concerned about the sticky tears blurring my vision.

“Tell me,” he ordered softly, leaning in close as I rinsed my arms and hands and then began to splash cold water on my face.

There was no way I could just _tell_ him what was wrong, not if someone really was listening, so I shook my leg at him, rattling the empty bottle in its pocket.

I was still rinsing out my eyes and was starting to relax now that the stinging seemed to be lessening when Trowa’s hands smoothed down my leg, passing over the pocket with my impromptu lock pick – thank you, WEI ballpoint pen – and zeroing in on the one with the plastic bottle.  He ripped open the Velcro, yanked out the bottle, and there was a moment of stillness, of absolutely perfect stillness.

Curious, I dared to glance in his direction between rinsings and the look on his face…

Holy.  Fuck.

He didn’t say anything as he stared at the blue droplets clinging to the inside of the plastic bottle, comprehension dawning.  He didn’t make a sound as horror widened his eyes.  He uttered not a word as his nostrils flared and his jaw clenched with complete and utter _fury._

He dropped the bottle and reached for my clothes.  With speed I had no idea he possessed, Trowa had my boots off, pants and underwear around my ankles, bandana untied, and turtleneck over my head in less time than it takes to hotwire a scooter.

“Shower.  _Now,”_ he hissed, reaching around my naked ass to adjust the water temperature and then he freakin’ _manhandled_ me into the tub.

Yeah, he’d figured out pretty quick what it was I’d had in that bottle, and it sure as hell hadn’t been Kool Razzberry Rush.  See, last Friday when I’d invited myself into his cubby of chemicals, I’d spied a wondrously caustic and deadly _blue_ cleanser.  Thereafter, I’d plotted how to extract some of it for the purpose of wreaking havoc on the residential building’s power grid.  (Which, I think we’ll all agree, would be a more than sufficient diversion for Howard to make good on his end of things.)  My plan had, naturally, involved getting my hands on a blue-colored soft drink and staging a major spill near the janitorial closet.  It had all worked out perfectly.  As Trowa had cleaned up my puddle in the aisle outside, I’d dumped out my drink and, donning protective rubber gloves and goggles, I’d refilled the bottle to about halfway with the strongest degreasing cleanser known to humankind.  I’d then cleaned up after myself and spent the rest of the afternoon with my secret weapon blatantly displayed on my desk, waiting for quitting time.  No one had suspected a thing as I’d strolled out of the office and across the street, bottle in hand.

Not even Trowa.

After all, it wasn’t exactly the most glamorous way to sabotage a building, was it?  Who would even think of using toxic, household-variety chemicals to bring down a power grid?

Well, I did, for one.

I smirked.

Oh, yeah.  I knew all about getting the most bang for your buck.  It wasn’t like the L2 rebels had gotten a government subsidy or anything to fund operations against the Alliance.  Still, I was particularly proud of myself for my plan.  If that wasn’t ingenuity, then I don’t know what the hell was.  Surely, Trowa could appreciate _that._

And then I startled as, suddenly, a body joined mine in the shower.  “Trowa!” I hissed.  “I’m fine!”

He wasn’t listening to me, though.  I could see it in the harsh planes of his frozen expression.  He was as buck naked as I was and thoroughly, flaming pissed.  His hands weren’t rough, but their grip was unbreakable as he shoved me directly beneath the shower spray.  When I stayed the hell put, I felt him catch the end of my damp braid and tear the elastic band off the end.

I could feel the rage just _rolling_ off of him in waves.  His fingers seemed to be shaking a bit as he untangled my hair with desperate dexterity.

I’d known the risks when I’d appropriated that cleanser.  I’d known it was corrosive enough to damage steel and copper.  I’d also known that once it made contact with the aforementioned substances, its fumes would get in my eyes and lungs, cling to my hair and skin, and give me chemical burns if I didn’t get to clean water fast.  I should have taken the gloves and goggles from Trowa’s maintenance closet.  I’d tried, but they hadn’t fit in any of my suit pockets and they’d looked damn bulky tucked under my dress shirt.  And, hell, even I couldn’t explain walking around with _those_ in my hands.  I’d had to leave them behind.

I was pretty sure Trowa was going to read me the riot act for that.

I winced as his fingers speared the wet hair at my scalp, working the warm water through every lock, over every strand.  He didn’t say a thing as he set about washing every trace of those damn chemicals off of me.  I could understand the necessity, sure.  Christ, all I had to do was rub my eyes with hands that had those damn molecules clinging to the dermis, and, um, yeah.  Very _not_ pleasant stuff could happen.

But what I could not get was his damn overreaction.  He was just about freakin’ _drowning_ me in the shower.  No sooner would his hands sluice the water from my skin and he’d start rinsing me all over again.

“Trowa,” I tried, water pouring over my face and I had to spit out a mouthful just to frickin’ _talk_.  “I’m fine.  Trowa!”

“Damn you,” he finally ground out.  He lifted my face toward the spray for the damn near hundredth time and ordered, “Open your eyes.”

“I’m _fine!”_ I stressed, pulling away.  My fingers were pruning up.  There wasn’t a dry spot on my entire body.  Even my lungs had stopped sizzling thanks to all the clean, humid air I was breathing.  “Stop!”

It was the magic word.  He paused, hands gripping my shoulders as if he were about to shove me back under the shower head.  The beads of water beat relentlessly down on us both and I just stared at him, suddenly hyper aware of the fact that we were both naked and crammed together in a space that was half the size of the office cleaning closet.

And then something flashed in his eyes and I just _knew_ he was now aware of the exact same thing.  Despite the deluge surrounding me, my mouth dried up like the Goddamn Sahara Desert.  I reached for the shower door.

The next thing I knew, I was pinned against the tiles and Trowa had a thigh between mine.  His mouth was on my neck and I felt his teeth against my skin.

“Ow, dammit,” I complained, shoving at his shoulders.

He didn’t budge.  Not that I’d put enough oomph into the gesture to _force_ him to move, still, I thought he’d get the freakin’ point and back the hell off.  What he did was the precise opposite.

I gaped, utterly astounded, as I found my wrists pinned to the wall on either side of my head.  “What the hell—?!”

I was denied even an indignant squawk as his mouth came down on mine.  Have you ever been eaten alive?  Devoured?  Probably not.  Well, lemme tell you, it’s freakin’ terrifying.  I could barely breathe.  I winced as the back of my head rocked against the tiles, as his body crushed mine, as his fingers dug into the flesh of my wrists, as Trowa’s tongue surged into my mouth again and again and again.

Summoning my strength, I jerked my chin to the side.  I wrenched one hand free and grabbed his wrist as I gasped for breath.  My mouth felt raw.  Fucking _raw._

“Wait,” I wheezed.  _Wait, let’s just calm the hell down here!_

Although I couldn’t get all the words out – my brain was still in some kind of shock, maybe – he froze.  I could feel him trembling with the effort to keep from squashing me into a Duo pizza against the tiles.

“Don’t,” he choked out and the sound of his voice startled me.  I glanced up and just freakin’ _gawped_ at the pain in his eyes.  With the exception of that moment I’d stumbled upon him at the circus, when he’d been so damn vulnerable and his memory terrifyingly blank, I’d never – and I mean _never_ – seen pain in his eyes before, not in all the years I’d known him, but there it was.  “Don’t _ever_ do that again.”

He stared at me, waiting for some kind of response.  Belatedly, it occurred to me that a simple agreement might be what he was angling for.  I nodded.

And then he sighed, slumping against me.  Now that he wasn’t pinning me anymore, I could have shoved him away.  I could have, but…

I felt his lips move against my shoulder.  His hands settled on my waist.  Pressing his forehead against the wall, he leaned his head toward mine and said the one word I just could not refuse.

“Please…”

It wrenched something deep within me, something primal.  “Shh,” I responded.  I’d liked it when Trowa had said the same word to me earlier, but now it was a plea.  I didn’t want to hear him beg.  Never.  I never wanted to hear him beg for anything.  I wrapped my arms around him and ran my palms over his back.  “Shh…”

For a long moment, he seemed content to just stand there in the lukewarm water with me, not grasping or clutching or crushing, but just leaning.  Eventually, I became aware of his chest brushing against mine with his every breath.  I felt his nipples against my skin and I shivered.  His hands stirred on my hips and caressed.  His lips brushed gently along my neck.

“Trowa—” I began, not at all certain as to what I was gonna say.

And then he drew my earlobe into his mouth and gave it a long, gentle suck.

“Oh, shit!” I gasped, feeling the sensation zing down my spine and zap me where I was sure to notice it.  And whoo boy did I ever!

Trowa noticed it too, moving restlessly against me and I felt myself harden against his hip.  He murmured something, words I couldn’t make out, and then he shifted and—!

_Holy-hell-oh-my-God-of-everlasting-death!_

Those long, slender, graceful, _dexterous_ fingers wrapped around my length and, tightening their grip, slowly began to pump.  With every pull of his hand, I heard someone whimper.  It wasn’t me – it _couldn’t_ be me – making that desperate noise.  I’d never whimpered in all my life.

Oh God.  Trowa’s tongue was licking my ear.  His breath was tickling my skin.  His body was shifting and rocking against mine.  His hand was touching and squeezing and gripping and pumping and—!

_Oh God oh God oh God oh God…!_

I realized dimly that I had one hand on his ass, clutching him helplessly as he rolled his hips against me.  I could feel his length sliding against the edge of my hip and I blindly – and dumbly – reached for him.  My fingers just brushed him, but it wrenched a groan from the depths of his being.  He lifted his head and I saw his green eyes, glittering and darkened with want.  I felt my lips part as he leaned in and gently kissed me.  Oh God.  His tongue was so warm and soft and his fingers were so sure and strong.  I moaned as I swelled even further in his grasp.

Oh God, he was touching me.  _Touching—!_

“Trowa…” I whispered, thrusting harder, clutching him closer to me.  I couldn’t decide where to brace myself.  His ass, his hips, his arms, his shoulders…  God, what was he doing to me?  I was straight I was straight I was straight I was—

“Touch me,” he breathed pleadingly and I didn’t even think about refusing.  I smoothed my hand down his body from neck to navel and then I—

“Ah!  Duo!”

I was holding onto him as he moved forward, forward, forward like the eternal ocean waves but condensed into one body and I was the shore and he was lapping-sucking-crashing-drawing at me, evoking a rush of sensation with every pass and I wasn’t sure it was pleasure, but it wasn’t pain and I _wanted_ it.  I wanted _this_ – this whatever he was doing to me – and I told him so.

“I want I want I want I—”

He shivered, shuddered, swelled in my grasp and my fingers twitched with surprise, tightening around him.

He screamed.  It was soft, just louder than a whisper, but it was a scream nonetheless.  I forced my eyes open – when had I closed them? – and watched his expression blank, heard his breath catch, felt his release against my hip.

And then he reaffirmed his grip on me and… well.  How could I not give in as he had?

He braced me against the wall as I shuddered in surrender.  He held me up with the weight of his body.  He moaned softly against my arched neck as I gasped for breath.

My God.  After a minute, I lowered my chin and looked at him, meeting his gaze.  He didn’t say anything and, when I closed my eyes to hide from the intensity in his expression, I felt his lips brush my chin, my jaw, my cheek, my nose, my eyelids…

He leaned against me and I locked my knees.  We held each other up under the cooling spray in silence.  In his case, maybe words weren’t necessary.  But in mine, I simply had no freakin’ idea of what to say.


	7. Make it Bend and Break

# Chapter 7: Make it Bend and Break

_I want these words to make things right, but it’s the wrongs that make the words come to life…_

 

Trowa didn’t mention what had happened in the bathroom.  He didn’t apologize for more or less attacking me when he’d figured out what kind of risks I’d taken.  Nor did he acknowledge what had, er, _come_ right after.  I looked for it, but if he felt any embarrassment or regret, I sure as hell didn’t see it.  I grabbed a towel off of the rack and schlepped my way into the living room as Trowa started filling the tub with water.  I assumed my clothes were destined for a long soak.  They were _my_ clothes so, it should have been me cleaning them the hell up, but I just did not want to freakin’ get into it.  Not that I thought we’d fight over who was damn well gonna do laundry, but…

I told myself he’d looked like he needed a few minutes to think, but I knew I was omitting a helluvalot of truth there.  Truth that I just was _not_ ready to face.  So I listened to the sound of water running, of clothes being dumped into the bath, of the plastic bottle being carefully rinsed out and tossed into the trash and took my ass into the bedroom to towel my hair dry.

I pulled on my T-shirt and shorts from the night before and plopped down on the unmade bed.  My wet hair was gonna soak the sheets, but I couldn’t summon enough practicality to really care.

I was running away from something – not that there was anything wrong with that in and of itself – but this was _my_ mission and, dammit, if _I_ wasn’t in charge then who the hell was running this show?

Now _that_ was a scary thought.

A motion in the doorway drew my gaze and I looked up to see Trowa, towel wrapped around his waist and his laundry bundled under one arm, hesitating on the threshold.

“Come in if you’re coming in,” I heard myself say.  “It’s half your room, man.”

He winced.  It was barely a twitch, but I saw it.  It took me a moment to realize why.  I’d just called him _man,_ not _babe._   Um, shit?  I didn’t even know what to think of that.

He lifted a hand to the necklace at his throat and asked softly, flatly, lifelessly, “Should I take this off?”

I looked at the onyx pendant.  I thought of the word etched upon it: _Trust._   Did I still trust Trowa?  Of course I did.  Hell, he hadn’t hurt me.  And even if it had come down to a fight – which it _hadn’t_ – I would’ve held my own.  That wasn’t the issue.  The issue was, quite honestly, he’d freakin’ _dumbfounded_ me.  Trowa – solid and steady-as-a-rock Trowa, sacrifice-your-comrades-for-the-good-the-mission Trowa – had, for all intents and purposes, flaming _panicked._

What was I supposed to think of that?  Had the intervening years since the war changed him so much?  Was he _not_ the consummate actor I’d thought he was?  Were his nerves of steel rusty and brittle these days?

No.  No, I didn’t believe that.  I knew a thing or two about Trowa’s past, not details or anything, but I had a general idea.  See, after I’d met him, I’d looked him up.  Professor G really shouldn’t have left a backdoor into Doktor S’s network like he had during the war.  Or maybe Doktor S just shouldn’t have kept such meticulous personnel files on his people, but he had.  If you worked for S, he had a file on you, from the original Trowa Barton himself all the way down to the lowliest mechanic with no name at all.  Yeah, I knew a thing or two about my partner’s past and I did not believe that a man who’d purportedly been a soldier from the time he could walk and talk would break now.  Bend, maybe, but not break.

It was in my nature to wonder how _far_ he’d bend, though.  And I was realistic enough to admit that it might have a significant impact on coming events.

But did I want him to remove the necklace I’d given him?  Even if I did, it was too late to go back now.  I couldn’t get a do-over on our marriage – those records were well and truly public by now.  The mission had been set in motion and there was no gettin’ off this ride until it came to a full and complete stop, which meant I had to keep my arms inside the car at all times and the safety bar in place.  Basically, I was not in a position to _not_ trust Trowa.  Besides which, I still needed him to trust _me._

The best way to keep that trust was to give it as best I could.

I stared at his still-raised hand, at the necklace and pendant resting against his collarbone, and shook my head.  “No.”

He lowered his hand, his eyes fluttering closed as he released the breath he’d been holding.

Sure, I still wanted to ask him to explain why exactly he’d tweaked out.  Well, maybe that wasn’t the only question I wanted an answer to.  I wanted to know why he’d tweaked out _like that._   But I couldn’t ask because he couldn’t tell me.  We couldn’t risk it if someone had our apartment bugged.

As dissatisfying as it was, I’d have to wait for an explanation.  In the meantime, the world wasn’t gonna stop turning.  Nor was there anything else mission-related that had to happen tonight.  We probably wouldn’t have power for much longer.  Hell, we’d be lucky if the fire alarm and sprinkler system weren’t tripped.  Might as well enjoy our modern comforts while we still had ‘em.

“Hey,” I said and held out my hand in invitation.

He dumped his clothes in the laundry basket by the door as he crossed the room.  He still seemed wary and I kept the sardonic grin the hell off of my face.  Did he think I was gonna bite him?  He sank down onto the bed next to me, just out of reach.

“Hey,” I said again, turning to study his face.  He seemed drawn.  Not really pale but… stressed.  And, lemme tell ya, being stressed after getting off like we had not ten minutes ago in the shower just wasn’t natural.  We should both be as energetic as neutron soup.  That is to say, not capable of doing anything whatsoever _._   Clearly something was wrong.  It frustrated me that I didn’t know how to ask.

But, then again, maybe talking was overrated.

I sidled toward him and he looked up, a little surprised by my voluntary approach.  Abandoning the towel around my shoulders and my undoubtedly tangled and still-dripping hair, I reached up and cradled his face in my hands.  He watched me, wide-eyed, as I closed the distance between us and placed a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

A measure of tension bled out of his shoulders and I felt his hand move to my bare knee.  It was now my turn in this conversation-without-words, so I tilted my head to an accommodating angle and waited.  He paused and then lifted his chin, hesitated once more, and finally brushed his lips against mine.  I brushed back.  He nibbled my lower lip.  I licked his, and then we were sharing breaths.  I invited him to taste me with a brief foray from my own tongue, and his response was immediate.  We held onto each other, my face cradled in his hands just as his was in mine as we kissed.  It was long and languid and just really, really… _nice._

He topped it off by drawing my lower lip into his mouth and I shivered, pulling back with a groan.  “No way, babe.  Round Two doesn’t start until we finish dealing with the mess we just made.”

His eyes widened slightly, flaring with sudden heat at the mention of Round Two.  “Mess?” he rasped, his gaze fixed on my mouth.

I reached behind me, grabbed for the brush I’d tossed onto the bed, and – taking ahold of his right hand – slapped it into his palm.

He smiled softly then and glanced at my hair.  I didn’t even want to look at it in the mirror.  I could just imagine the snarls.  And the snarls’ snarls.  Ugh.

Trowa mused, “Is that Duo Speak for telling me you’d like a hand?”

 _“One_ hand?” I retorted with mock affront.  “I’ll take two and not a pinkie less.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“You think?  All I’m after is your immortal soul.”

“In that case…” he replied and I studied the nuances of the soft smile I’d been seeing quite a lot of over the last week, “it’s yours for a song.”

“A song?” I replied, snorting.  “You do _not_ want to hear me sing, babe.  _Trust me.”_

Trowa leaned toward me and pressed a kiss to my wet hair.  “But I do.”  Before I could skeptically-eyebrow-arch him into explaining that, he continued, “It’d be worth it to hear the words.”

I considered this before ferreting for another hint.  “Would they happen to be magic words, like ‘please’and ‘thank you’?”

“Magical,” he corrected softly, and then he got up to fetch the blow dryer.

Naturally, as soon as he sat down behind me and turned it on, that’s when the power went out.

“I think it’s a sign,” I sighed, moving away so that when I twisted my hair up in the damp towel resting across my shoulders, I wouldn’t elbow Trowa in the eye or something.  Although, it seemed like he only ever used one of them at a time anyway…

“I’ll get the lanterns,” he volunteered and I heard him moving around the apartment with confidence, locating our battery-powered table lights.  They kind of looked like those fat, little, round candles except there wasn’t a flame.  Trowa opened two packs of four, placing them on both bedside bureaus and the chest of drawers.  The room was still pretty dim, but at least I could see enough to work on my hair without worrying about causing collateral damage.  And it looked like I had quite a lot of work ahead of me what with the blow dryer being out of commission.  I stood and started squeezing the water out of my hair with the towel.  Behind me, I heard Trowa rummaging in a drawer and then there was the unmistakable sound of a wet towel being tossed into the laundry basket.  And no, I most definitely did _not_ turn around and peek. 

I heard the sound of water sloshing in the bathtub and the gush of cloth being wrung out followed by the particular melody of droplets hitting ceramic tiles. Trowa was taking care of my toxic clothing. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate it, but he turned a ten-minute chore into a freakin’ four-act laundry opera.

When Trowa next entered my line of sight, he was wearing his flannel pajama pants.  I watched as he stripped the bed of its shower-water soaked linens and put down fresh ones.

He made that bed with military precision.  Twice over.  I didn’t know why he was still futzing with the damn thing.  Hell, in the time it had taken me to towel dry and brush out my hair, he could have assembled a cool dozen handguns with a side of missile launchers.  I turned and leaned back against the chest of drawers as I started to braid, just watching him open drawers and tuck things away.  I’d just finished tying off the end when he came within three feet of me – the closest he’d been since the lights had gone out – and bent to pick my wet towel up off the floor.

It was then, as he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, that I realized he was avoiding me.  Hell, he wasn’t even making eye contact.  What the hell?  We’d gone over that shower scene and moved past it, hadn’t we?  Why was he treating me like a warm bottle of nitroglycerin?

I frowned in thought, but the expression only served to drive him further away.

He tossed my used towel in the basket and then, bafflingly, he moved toward the doorway as if he were going to the living room to… I dunno… sit alone in the dark.

Something squeezed uncomfortably tight within my chest, like I had some kind of dull muscle cramp in there.  I crossed the distance before he could make his escape and placed a hand on his arm.  He paused and turned toward me with an aloof and expectant look.  The hell!  One minute he was freakin’ _steaming_ with heat and the next I got cool indifference?

That was so not gonna cut it.

“Where ya goin’?” I heard myself demand.

“If the front door isn’t locked down, across the hall.”  Quatre’s apartment was across the hall and two doors down.  “To see if anyone else has lost power.”

I looked him up and down.  “You’re going to see other men – after dark – in your jammies?” I teased, but there was a note in my voice that distantly reminded me of Shinigami.

Trowa opened his mouth and I sensed that one hell of a retort was on the way, but then he just stopped and, lifting his hand to his necklace again, asked, “Would you rather I stayed?”

“I’d rather,” I replied, “go back to the part where you were sitting next to me and talking to me.”

He blinked at me once.  He swallowed.  “I…”

He didn’t finish the thought and I had so little to work with that I couldn’t tell where he would have gone with it.  I prompted, “You… want, like, need…?”  Three cheers for multiple choice tests, yeah?

“I don’t want to argue,” he finally managed, still standing with his arm unresisting in my grasp.

“Argue,” I parroted, as if repeating the word would give me better conversational footing.  “What would we argue about if you stayed here and we just hung out?”

I saw half a dozen thoughts occur to him in real time as his expression shifted minutely.  In the end, all he said was, “Duo…”

His tone was a dead thing, dead like it had been back during the war before he’d lost his memories.  His posture was ramrod straight, like a soldier standing at attention.  He practically screamed _back the hell off_ and yet he was just standing here, letting me hold onto his arm, and wearing only a necklace and a pair of sleep pants.  I studied him until his green eyes focused on mine and—

Was that a flash of desire?

Curious if _this_ was the answer to his sudden shift in mood, I experimentally leaned closer.  He was on high alert, but he didn’t back up.  In fact, his gaze drifted down to my mouth and his lips parted in helpless reaction.

I shifted into his space and his posture melted.  He let me push him up against the door frame as I moved closer.  He watched me, but it wasn’t wary or suspicious.  He wanted me.

“I wouldn’t have argued about this,” I told him.

He didn’t answer with words, but when I leaned in and kissed him, he opened his mouth to me and groaned softly.  The moment put me in mind of our second kiss, the one in front of his door last Tuesday evening.  I molded him to me as my mouth moved languidly over his.  My hands ventured up and down his sides and his hips pressed against mine.

He was hard.

I broke the kiss and opened my eyes to gauge his reaction.  He, meanwhile, seemed to be gauging mine.  Did I want him?  I wasn’t sure.  If I thought about it in too much detail, what we’d done in the shower was bound to send me into a panic.  It was one thing to bring each other off in search of relief.  It was something else altogether to willfully touch someone with the intent of making him come.

“Duo?” he whispered tentatively, bringing my mind back in focus.

Trowa hadn’t moved a muscle.  He was still there, leaning back and waiting for my verdict, utterly submissive to my will.  I could refuse him, but… something told me not to.  He was vulnerable and if I walked away from him now…

How could I ask him to watch my back in the future – when I’d really _need_ my partner – if I couldn’t do the same for him?  Half-formed thoughts of fairness and need, of reciprocal relationships and trust came to me.  Through it all, Trowa waited, breath all but held.

I made my decision.  “I’ll get the towels,” I offered softly, and then I caressed his sides again before nodding toward the bed.  I kissed him once more, briefly, and then I got the hell on with fetching and carrying before I changed my mind and either got busy with him right there in the damn doorway or ran screaming from the apartment.

It wasn’t until I reached up to grab a pair of hand towels from the linen rack in the bathroom that I realized I was in the process of getting hard.  Hell.  These hormones would be the freakin’ death of me.

When I reentered the bedroom, my gaze zeroed in on the bed.  Trowa was sitting up in the middle of it, waiting for me but still dressed in his PJs.  He watched my approach in silence, ignoring the towels when I tossed them onto the nearest flat surface.  I met his gaze and I reached down to peel off my T-shirt.  The fabric, still damp from my only partially-dry hair, stuck to my back a bit, and when I tossed it aside, my braid slapped heavily against my skin.  Trowa’s fingers twitched aimlessly.

Taking that for an invitation, I crawled onto the bed and continued my advance toward him.  He didn’t meet me halfway.  Instead, as I approached, he leaned back, bracing himself on his elbows, and then finally lay flat as I hovered above him.

I didn’t have much personal experience with this sort of thing – only what I’d gained in the last two days – but it already felt different, unnervingly different, from the other two times we’d touched.  In fact, the way he was now, supple and compliant beneath me, reminded me again of that submissive pose and the heavy-lidded gaze, the whispered invitation: _“Are you coming in?”_

I suppressed a shiver and leaned in.  The kiss I pressed to his lips was warm, chaste, and brief.  I pressed a second to his jawline, to the shuddering skin over his jugular, to the rise of his collarbone.  It occurred to me that I was teasing him.  I was only touching him with my lips, occasionally my nose, and – by necessity – the nearly-dry strands of my hair.  His hands were at his sides, his fingers curled into the bedcovers.  Noticing this, I sat back a bit and ran a single fingertip down the corded muscles of one arm to investigate that desperate grasp.  As I drew my forefinger around his knuckles, dipping between the digits and tracing the lines of his veins, he stiffened.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his hips twitch and the fabric of his flannel pants tent further.

I didn’t ask if he wanted them off.  He’d stop me if he didn’t.  But when I reached for the waistband, his hips were already rising to accommodate the coming motion.  I worked the elastic band over his length.  I couldn’t avoid getting an eyeful as I carefully maneuvered the waistband over his hips.  I had to watch what I was doing unless I wanted to rudely scrape or bump his sensitized skin and I didn’t.  I wanted to be careful.  His sudden fragility seemed to demand it, call it forth from inside me.

I met his gaze when the top of his pants were clear and all I had to do was sweep them down his long legs.  He shivered slightly as I tossed them on the floor and I was struck by the sight of him in the dim, ghostly glow of the emergency lanterns.  I wouldn’t call it romantic, exactly, but there was a moment of bare-ness, of being exposed and open in a way that wasn’t nearly as harsh as fluorescent light would have demanded.

I kicked off my shorts and slid back up toward him.  My hand found its way to his knee and he didn’t even hesitate to spread his thighs and make room for me there.  He gasped a little – it was no more than a sharply indrawn breath – when I accepted the invitation and crouched between his legs.  It occurred to me that I could look down and see _all_ of him.  He was completely naked except for the necklace he never seemed to take off.

At the thought, blood rushed hotly to my groin and Trowa broke our staring contest first.  He glanced down and very briefly – with no teasing at all – licked his lips.  “Duo?” he asked, his hand fluttering uncertainly against the bedcovers.

I thought I understood the question, so I replied, “If you want to, you can.”  I was giving him permission now to touch me _there_ and it felt like a completely different touch from the one in the shower earlier.  When he brushed his fingers against me, from base to tip, I reached out and grasped his bent knees, my thumbs moving against his skin as he explored slowly.  His other hand rose to my hip and urged me closer.  I shuffled forward a bit, just until I could feel his thighs against mine, but the grasp upon my hip was unrelenting.

Damn, but if I moved forward any more, I’d be kneeling on certain bits that would not appreciate the attention, and I was pretty sure that was _not_ what he wanted.

When I didn’t budge, he lifted his hips and slid down in bed just a bit, until his balls pressed against one of my knees.  I hesitated then, wary of moving and upsetting the balance between us.  One careless squish and we’d have to play charades to pass the rest of the evening.

And then he made a loose fist around me with his hand and pulled gently all the way to the tip, making me hiss and grit my teeth.  His hand moved again, sinking back down and I struggled not to thrust.  It was then, as I was hanging onto control by a thread, that I felt his fingertips brush lower, dipping between my thighs and the touch was electrifying.

“Ah!”  I bucked once, and then pulled back.

Trowa leaned up a bit, as if to chase after me, but it wasn’t necessary.  In the next instant, I’d stretched out over him, our lengths bumping and rubbing incidentally as I drew his lower lip into my mouth and nibbled it.

His hands clutched my shoulders and his long legs wrapped around my hips and it was perfect.  The heat of his skin against mine and the soft, purring sound he was making as I charted the contours in his mouth were both winding me up and grounding me.  I lowered myself until I was braced on my elbows and our chests were brushing, making my nipples tingle with each writhe.  My hands grasped his shoulders and I pulled myself up as I tugged him down and our hips came together squarely.  He groaned and I rocked against him, lost in the body heat, in the kiss, in the scent and sounds of him.

Either Trowa and I were getting better at kissing, or I was losing that edge of alertness that has kept my ass alive all these years.  And if the latter was true, it was evaporating at a freakin’ _terrifying_ rate.  But as long as I was kissing Trowa, I didn’t really give a damn.  Maybe this was my version of the Sampson tale.

This time, I took the initiative and did my best to share a bit of the gift that keeps on giving.  I shifted my weight to one arm and placed my other hand on his knee, then ran it up over his hip and side to his chest, where I rubbed circles over his nipple.  The little, breathy sounds he made muted the warning bell in my head and freakin’ backhanded every “But I’m straight!” thought into another hemisphere.  I couldn’t help it.  We hadn’t used soap or shampoo tonight when we’d been in the shower so the scent that captivated me was all Trowa.  I pulled my mouth away from his, our lips clinging briefly, before nuzzling his throat and then burying my nose in the silky hairs behind his ear and inhaling.

All I wanted was to feel him moving with me, beneath me.  The only taste on my tongue was the flavor of his mouth and skin.  His scent was my breath and his touch was my language.  I answered him with lips, with breathy agreements that sometimes sounded like _yes_ but mostly just sounded like moans.

There was something about having him beneath me – something about having his warm, roughened hands searching again and again over my bare back, something about his thighs spread wide and cradling my hips with muscular warmth – that just downgraded all higher brain function to optional.  That must be why, as Trowa pressed his mouth to my throat and began to breathe-nibble-brush my skin, my hand untangled itself from the bed clothes and found the bare flesh of his inner thigh.

“Duo!” he gasped, panting, rolling his hips in these hopeful and suggestive little motions meant to encourage my hand to venture further upward.

“This?” I teased breathlessly as my palm obligingly moved, rubbing small circles as I went.

His fingers closed around my braid, tilting my head down so that our gazes met.  His lips were wet and swollen from my kisses, his pupils dilated.  His chest heaved with each pant.  Dear Christ.  Trowa was the embodiment of desire.

“Nuh, Trowa,” I mouthed on a breath and then I gasped as his hands dived from my shoulders down to my ass and his back arched, pressing his hips upward and...!

With my knees between his, even the tiniest shift of our bodies had me thrusting mindlessly against him.  I needed more, more, more.  I abandoned my intention to continue teasing him and thought very seriously about touching him in earnest, about measuring his length and feeling him twitch and swell in my grasp.  Oh, God.  I _wanted_ to touch him again!

I decided I would be horrified later.  This was one impulse I couldn’t stop myself from following.

“Trowa…” I whispered in his ear, shifting my hips away and caressing his thigh.  “Can I—?”

My hand hovered meaningfully over his swollen length.  Still, I didn’t glance down.  I was waiting for permission and it took every ounce of concentration I had.

“Yes,” he breathed.  “Yes, yes, yes…”

One would have been sufficient, but I liked his enthusiasm.  Looking down, I let myself really study him for a moment, from the curling hair at the base to the flushed and glistening head.  And then I fitted him against my palm and just rubbed up and down.

“Ah!”  His hips came off the bed and his voice cracked and it was so, so hot.  _He_ was hot.  His surrender was doing me in.  I was never going to be the same after this, now that I had this memory of him in my head, holding me close as he rode against my hand, his head thrown back and breath panting, his throat arched and nipples stiff.

I curled my fingers tight around him and began to stroke.

His thighs fell open a bit more as he rocked toward me.  “Duo…” he pleaded and I leaned forward until our lips met and I was invited back inside his mouth.  It was too bad neither of us had the concentration to take full advantage of it.  I felt him swell a bit more in my gasp; it wouldn’t be long now.

“You wanna come like this?” I asked, nuzzling his throat.

He groaned.  “Say that—word— _again,”_ he panted and I had to wrack my brain to figure out which one he’d meant.

I made an educated guess and rasped, “Come, baby.  Come.”

He did.  I felt his release hit my stomach and then it ran back down over my fingers.  I held on as he pulsed once, twice more and then he softened and slipped from my grasp.

In that moment, just before I reached for one of the towels I’d brought out, I realized that I was still hard.  I also realized that I didn’t really want to come right now.  Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t exactly comfortable but, bizarre as it seems, I wanted this time to be for Trowa and if I got off on it, too, that would turn it all ‘round and backwards.  This wasn’t about me, and I didn’t _want_ it to be about me.

I set out to prove it by taking care of the cleanup.

Trowa didn’t move away from me – in fact, he snuggled closer – but he was too drowsy to notice I hadn’t contributed to the spillage I was mopping up.

“You OK?” I checked, reaching up with my clean hand to brush his bangs back so I could see both his droopy, dopey, green eyes.

He nodded, nuzzling my palm, and then his lashes drifted shut.  It wasn’t until his breaths had long since evened out and deepened that I managed to get comfortable enough to join him.

I woke to continued darkness punctuated by the glow of the emergency lights.  I also woke to the feel of a warm, naked body pressing against my equally naked back and ass.  I could tell from the purposeful way he shifted – as he deliberately tried not to disturb me – that he was awake.

“Trowa?” I said, rolling toward him.  Our knees banged and he was lying on the end of my braid, but once we got all that sorted out, he leaned forward and kissed me softly.

I hummed at him and he took that as an invitation to snake an arm over my chest.

“Nightmare?” I guessed as his breath puffed softly against my bare shoulder.

“No,” he murmured, a thigh sliding over mine.  “A good dream.”  His arm tightened briefly and I smiled, glad that I seemed to be part of it in some way.  I wasn’t sure how many good dreams I’d be around for now that the lights were off and the power company guys would be on the way.  If they weren’t already.

With a sigh, I recalled that I’d tossed my wristwatch in my duffel just before my stuff had been escorted over here on Sunday.  I still hadn’t dug the damn thing out yet.  Without a window through which to judge the time of day or a battery-powered alarm clock to inform us of the hour, I decided not to make any effort whatsoever to be up and about “on time.”  Time was relative now, and here in our black box of an apartment, it freakin’ did not exist.

I think Trowa could sense that things were about to change for all of us.  I was sure he’d be able to follow my act of vandalism through to its logical conclusion.  What he didn’t know, and what I hadn’t told him yet, was that I couldn’t guarantee that the people funding our rescue would be tree-hugging pacifists.

As Trowa slept, I played my part as his body pillow and dozed on and off.  The mission plan started running through my head whenever my eyelids started drooping, so I didn’t get much shuteye.  When he stirred next, I didn’t let him relax back into sleep.  I turned toward him and braced myself above him.  His lashes fluttered open as I pressed butterfly kisses to his jaw and he sighed.  I don’t think I imagined that it was a contented sound.

He rubbed against me in this sexy, whole body stretch-and-wiggle that was fascinating to watch and felt freakin’ irresistible.  I couldn’t tell you if it was actually morning, but my body seemed to think it was close enough.  So did Trowa’s for that matter.  Our hips rocked together and his arms came around my shoulders and, in the next instant, I was lying between his thighs again, bracing myself on my hands on either side of him as I nuzzled his chest.

I clutched the rumpled bed covers as we moved clumsily together.  I wasn’t very suave or graceful and sometimes our thrusts were off, but ask me if I gave a damn.  It was messy and hot and freakin’ fantastic.  It was also the best I could manage this soon after deciding to officially wake up.  As things got a bit more desperate, I opened my eyes and met his gaze.  Yeah, last night had been for Trowa.  This was for _us,_ and I wanted us to come at the same time, just like the first night we’d spent together.

Trowa rocked his hips up to meet mine once more, grasping my arms for leverage as he did so, and suddenly I was lost to the promised rush.

And, oh man what a rush.  I was still panting, my forehead resting on his shoulder when he pulled me tight against him, thrusting helplessly in silence, and then he joined me in release.

When I could breathe again, and when I thought it might be possible that Trowa was capable of higher thought, I asked, “Was that OK?”

“Mmm,” he purred and I grinned at his typical no-comment noise.  God forbid that the guy ever admit to anything.

My forehead still pressed to his shoulder, my grin widened and I marveled at just freakin’ everything about this moment.  Was this what married life was like for normal people?  It was pretty damn hilarious that Trowa and I could be normal at anything, as fucked up as our respective pasts were and as messy as this mission might get.

Speaking of which…  I collected the second towel I’d brought out here last night, and wiped us both clean.  I figured I’d roll outta bed and see if we had any running water for a quick shower before trying to bust my way outta our apartment and hunt us up some food, but Trowa just kinda draped himself over me in a blatant move to postpone that plan.

“Still early,” he informed me, his eyes closed.

I was starting to wonder if he could frickin’ sleep through Armageddon.  “How do you know?” I challenged him.

“Wristwatch on the bureau.”

I peered over his shoulder and, sure enough, Trowa’s timepiece was sitting right there.  Since he was still technically awake, I pretty much crawled over him to reach the damn thing and press the illumination button.  Trowa didn’t even grouch at me.  He just looped his arms around my thighs and sighed against my ribcage.  When he settled down and I could concentrate again, I ascertained the time – 05:11.

Well, hell.  It was _definitely_ too freakin’ early.  Too bad my stomach thought it was a marvelous time to get some chow.  I winced as it growled at me.  With a sigh, I rolled out of bed to get some water.  That was pretty much all I could do for myself at this point unless I wanted to scope out the halls and emergency stairs to see if I could get to a vending machine.

I considered that option as I pulled on my shorts and took an emergency lantern out to the kitchenette.  Well, “nook” was maybe a better word.  It was just a corner of our living room, partitioned off by a free-standing bar with a couple of stools.  Against the wall were a few token cupboards.  There was a single-basin stainless steel sink, a mini fridge, a water cooler, an electric hot water kettle, and the garbage disposal unit.  There wasn’t much mischief people could get into with those.  I guess that was why no one was allowed to cook in their rooms, especially when the average employee was a middle-aged married guy-living-away-from-home who’d never cooked a day in his life.

I set the lantern down and grabbed a plastic tumbler from the shelf and then helped myself to some water.  That was always the first line of defense against hunger: fill up on water and see if your belly is still trying to get to your intestines.

I wasn’t so sure it’d work this time.  Or, to rephrase that more accurately, I wasn’t sure I _wanted_ it to work.  I was itching for an excuse to try and do some reconn, but I didn’t even know if I could open the damn front door.  It seemed unlikely that my old apartment would have opened despite a power failure, but Trowa and I were in poorly-secured civilian quarters.  I figured I had a 50-50 shot.

I downed the rest of my water and went to hunt up some clothes.  I wouldn’t get very far in my PJs in the event that I _could_ get the door open.  The water pump seemed to be operating, so I took a very quick shower – just to take care of the, er, collateral damage dried to my skin – and then I pulled on the clothes I’d absently grabbed.  I ended up in a pair of black jeans, a red short-sleeved turtleneck thing, and my combat boots.  I returned to the bedroom and dug my leather jacket out of the closet for the hell of it.  Through all of my quiet rummaging, Trowa remained utterly silent.  Maybe he was sleeping and maybe he wasn’t.  I didn’t ask and he didn’t make a sound.

Returning to the main room, I laid my jacket across the kitchenette counter and got to work.

An investigation of the card swiper revealed it to be completely nonoperational.  The palm scanner was also dark.  Right, so either the magnetic locks that sealed the door shut were deactivated which meant I should be able to shove the thing open – at least, that was the theory – or the door was locked down until the power was turned back on.

So, next I had to see if I could slide the door open with no handholds whatsoever to get a grip on.  Oh, this was gonna be _fun._

I braced myself as best I could, flattened both palms against the surface of the door for maximum traction, and _pushed._

Nothing happened.  Well, except for when my palms got a little sweaty from the exertion and I lost my tentative grip.  I nearly fell flat on my face.  How freakin’ embarrassing.  It was a good thing my only possible witness was asleep in the other room.  It looked like it was all up to Howard and his crew now.  I wouldn’t be doing much in the way of helping them extract us from this damn prison unless I wanted to risk running into a security guard when I went down the elevator shaft and pried open the doors to the lobby.  Screw it.  It was easier to sit on my ass and wait.  Huffing out a sigh, I grabbed my jacket and returned to the bedroom.

I didn’t feel like crawling back in bed, so I placed a chair next to Trowa’s side and sat my ass down to think.  With no windows, there wasn’t much I could do except speculate on when we’d see the action I was expecting.  Yeah, I expected they’d drive up in utility vehicles or something.  No one ever suspects the repairman, right?  Well, I guess airlifting us out was a possibility, but it was a little flashy.  It practically _screamed_ “prison break,” right?  And besides, just escaping this pile wasn’t enough.  Hell, the five of us could have _escaped_ a whole damn hour after being incarcerated.  It was the _after the escape_ part that was tricky.  With the whole damn world against us, we’d have to hide for the rest of our lives.  Where could we show our faces without being picked out by the local cops?  Eventually, we’d have to work around the law until we turned into the very thing people feared we’d become.  I didn’t want that.  Hell, none of us did.  The goal here was _freedom._   And, as far as I could see, there was only one way for us to get it.  So, no air evac… unless it was a medical chopper, which I had to admit did have some definite potential.

However, more importantly than the _how_ of our extraction was the _who:_ who exactly had Howard gotten to help him with this little op?  Undoubtedly, it’d be someone looking to upset the peace that the five of us had fought and killed and bled for.  The real question was how competent they were, how gullible, and how desperate.

Swallowing a sigh, I turned my thoughts away from the freakin’ infinite number of possibilities, and studied Trowa in the dim light.  My gaze traced his features, relaxed in sleep.  At some point during the night, we’d burrowed beneath the covers, but the sheet only came up to his chest.  He was lying on his side, one arm tucked up against his body and the other flung out across the bed as if searching for a connection.

I couldn’t deny that we had that, he and I.  Even before this whole marriage business started, we’d become friends over the years.  In some ways, he knew me better than Quatre, despite the guy’s empathic abilities and the fact that he’d pretty much single-handedly gotten me though my rage and grief at Heero’s idiotic compliance with J’s self-destruct order.  Q was a great friend, but he didn’t really challenge me.

Trowa challenged me.  Hell, he challenged me in ways that even Wufei never had and couldn’t.  Over the years, Trowa’s silence and straight face had become a kind of red cape to my charging bull.  And, whereas Wufei had his limit with regards to teasing, Trowa had never drawn that particular line.  With the exception of his nightmare the night before, he’d never shut me out, never told me to back off, never raised his defenses.  This very mission was kinda proof of that.

I was even a little surprised that Trowa was a better fit for me than Heero when it came to missions.  Hell, even back in the war, when I was being held by OZ, and Trowa – posing as an OZ officer – had slugged me in the gut in order to pass me that damn handheld projector so Wufei and I could read up on the improvements being implemented to our captured Gundams, _that_ had been a kind of partnership.  That seditious moment, I mean.  We’d played our roles perfectly right under the noses of the other Ozzies.  I’m not sure Heero could have done that.  I’m positive that he _wouldn’t_ have.  The jerk would have taken off in Wing and left Wufei and I to muddle through our own crash course in mobile suit upgrades as we made our escape.

But then, Heero always looked out for number one.  Not that there was anything wrong with that.  He’d been trained to place the success of the mission above casualties.  He’d probably figured that if Wufei and I couldn’t handle our new Gundams from the onset, then we must not be very good soldiers to begin with.  He might have even trusted us to figure it out for ourselves; after all, they didn’t just hand out Gundams to _anyone._   Trowa, on the other hand, even at his apparent dastardly worst, even when he’d – for all intents and purposes – been parading around as a damn turncoat, he was still looking out for us as best he could.

Someday, I would have to ask him if any of his OZ comrades had ever mentioned cutting off my braid for shits and giggles.  I was almost sure they’d thought of it – no good interrogator would neglect to contemplate all the ways to crush a prisoner’s spirit short of a war crime – so someone must have looked at my long hair and thought, “Hm.  There’s a potential weak point.”  Amazingly, someone must have talked them out of it or, at the very least, delayed the implementation of that move.  And I bet that person was Trowa.  As I sat in the gloom, studying his peaceful features, I promised myself I’d ask him sooner rather than later.

I pulled the aforementioned rope of hair over my shoulder and ran a hand down the plait.  Commander Une could have had it chopped off before my execution, but it probably would have made me look pathetic instead of insolent.  It was hard to hate a kicked puppy and not nearly as hard to despise a long-haired, cocky “terrorist.”

I guess that explained how my damn braid had made it through the war intact.  Half thanks to human nature and half thanks to Trowa Barton.

It was six-thirty according to Trowa’s abandoned wristwatch when he shifted in the bed and inhaled lazily.  An instant later, his lashes fluttered.

“’Morning,” I greeted him.

He glanced away from the empty place in bed beside him and up at me.  I watched him take in my choice of clothing and, in an instant, his sleepy relaxation disappeared.  He sat up and I gave him an apologetic grin.

“I bet someone’ll be here to fix the power soon.”

He nodded, acknowledging the information, and I stood up.  He watched me replace the chair against the wall and collect my jacket.  As I headed for the door in order to give him some privacy so he could pull on some clothes, I heard the sound of a drawer opening behind me.

“Duo.”

I turned and reflexively caught what turned out to be a pair of protein bars he’d squirreled away in his bedside bureau.  “Awesome,” I thanked him with a wide grin.  “I’ll go set the table.”

“Use the good china,” he quipped and I laughed.

I dropped the protein bars on the coffee table in the living room and fetched the single emergency lantern I’d brought out earlier.  A pair of water-filled plastic tumblers completed our feast.  After a brief detour to the bathroom for a shower, Trowa stepped out in a pair of pale jeans and green turtleneck. With a glance at the front door, he summarized, “Locked down?”

“Yeah.”  I wasn’t sure if it was just because the power was out or because the emergency systems sensed a toxic, airborne substance on the premises.  “Pretty sure that means we’ve got the day off.”

“You just jinxed it,” he replied, sitting down next to me and reaching for one of the still-wrapped calorie cakes.

I leaned a shoulder against his and picked up the second.  We peeled and ate with measured bites in silence.  It wasn’t nearly as bad as military rations and it was miles better than the half-spoiled morsels I’d scavenged on the streets in my childhood.  The company was pretty good, too.

I popped the last bite into my mouth and leaned back on the sofa, laying my arm across the top of the cushions behind Trowa’s shoulders.  He finished his own breakfast and carefully placed the empty wrapper on the coffee table before slumping down next to me.  I felt a small tug on my braid as his hand found it pinned beneath my arm.  I shifted so I could pull it out and let it drape over my shoulder.

“You know why I wear it like this?” I asked softly, not as if someone might be listening, but as if speaking loudly would shatter the moment.

Trowa shook his head, grasping the tail in his hand and using his thumb to fiddle with the very end of it.  “It must be important to you.”

“The memory is,” I confessed.  “Someone I loved taught me how to braid my hair like this.  I didn’t know her long before she…  Well, I guess Sister Helen was like a mother to me even though it was just for that year and a bit.”

Trowa’s touch changed and he now stroked the plait reverently.

“Thank you,” I whispered, taking a gamble.

“For?” he prompted softly.  I think he knew what I was going to say, but he wasn’t going to confirm it before he was sure of the direction of my thoughts.

“I still have it because of you… don’t I?” I checked.

He looked up and I met his gaze.  He didn’t concur that some bastard Ozzie had wanted to chop it off in an attempt to break me.  Instead, he said, “I told them to re-examine your file.  I said you were vain and shallow.  You thought having long hair would get you more attention from girls.”

I snorted, my lips curving into a smirk.  “I can’t say that it ever worked on girls.”  I wondered if it had worked on Trowa, though.

“It was nice seeing this during the war,” he volunteered.  “I hid as best I could.”  At this, he gestured to his fall of hair, which never failed to conceal half his face.  “But you wore yours like a banner for the colonies.  It defied all logic that you’d been able to keep it such a long length during a war.”  He smiled as he petted the end of my braid again.  “It spoke of… moxy.”

“Moxy?” I checked, wondering if I should be flattered or affronted.  “Isn’t moxy for, y’know, girls an’ stuff?”

“Rebellion?” he offered.  “Defiance, strength, perseverance, bull-headed stubbornness…”

I shoved at his shoulder playfully.  “Knock it off, babe.  You’re makin’ me blush over here.”

“… fire,” he softly concluded with some reluctance.

Liking that last one quite a lot, I turned toward him and pressed my face against his soft, silky hair.  “Y’know, I always figured you were the type to play with fire,” I teased… only, it didn’t come out teasing.

“We always want what we don’t have,” he murmured, still holding the end of my braid captive.

I wanted to scold him for saying something so stupid, but I whispered instead, “You have fire, babe.  I see it in you.”

His silent pause just about _tasted_ doubtful.  “No,” he denied.  “You don’t.”

“I do,” I retorted tenaciously, pulling back and looking him in the eye.  “I saw it burning in you last Tuesday when I stopped by your cleaning cubby.  I saw it when you came by my desk every damn day, when you spoke of Q’s damned speech being on the news, when you—”  I broke off then, suddenly embarrassed.  I’d been about to tell him that I’d sensed a frickin’ atomic blast when he’d kissed me.  “You’re flamin’ burning up inside, you have so damn much fire,” I told him, my voice rough.  “You hoard it, though.  For control.”

He was very still beside me.  I didn’t push, but I did say, “You can tell me anything, y’know.  I’ll keep your secrets.”  It was no small thing I was offering him, but I figured he deserved it.  He was a freakin’ amazing guy and he ought to have a friend who would never betray his heart or judge his past.  I was sure Quatre would do his best, but I didn’t think a guy who’d lived such a sheltered childhood could really understand the darkness and uncertainty Trowa and I had endured.

That was why I’d chosen Trowa in the first place.  He and I knew what it was like to face adversity every day, to have it be what wakes you up in the morning with a messy smooch.  And we were well and truly used to persevering despite (or perhaps _due to)_ having little more than the clothes on our backs and our own wits at our disposal.

“I know,” he replied.  His hand sought mine in the gloom and I clasped it tightly.

We sat like that for a long time, my arm across his shoulders, our hands clasped, my lips sifting through his hair.  If only we could have stayed like that forever.

Eventually, real life got in the way.  I’d had a lot of water since I’d woken up.  It wasn’t romantic, but the need to piss rarely is.  While I was in the bathroom, I brushed my teeth thoroughly.  Who knew when I’d next have the chance.  When I came out, Trowa went in to take care of his own business.  We both ended up back on the sofa, though, this time with me leaning back against his chest and his arm around me as we waited for something to happen.

Long minutes passed before Trowa spoke again.  This time, he told me the story behind his name and I had to bite my tongue to keep from berating him for being dumb enough to announce his presence at the scene of a murder.  And to the murderer himself, no less.  I could imagine the scene, though.  The Trowa I know had faded into the background so well that when the _real_ Trowa Barton had started to stir up trouble about going through with that damn Operation Meteor, one of the assistant scientists had shot him impulsively, thinking only he and S were present.  They’d completely forgotten about their nameless, kid mechanic.  But, Jesus, it boggled my mind that anyone could possibly overlook him.

Still, it had taken some serious balls for that lowly mechanic to come forward and offer to pilot Heavyarms.  I couldn’t really understand how he could have not only offered, but done such a damn fine job over the course of the whole damn war if he hadn’t had a freakin’ _wildfire_ roaring within him.  I mean, a guy without conviction never would have made it past our collective failure at New Edwards where Heero had killed the Alliance’s pacifists in one fell swoop.  Trowa had more than made it.  He’d freakin’ _blossomed._

But, that did not excuse the mindless risk he’d taken in revealing his presence as the L3 scientists had stood over a dead man’s body and fretted about the fate of the project.

“No wonder S was impressed,” I managed to say after wrangling my impulse to shake some sense into his younger self.  “Nerves of steel.”

“Apathy,” he replied.  “Back then, I didn’t care whether I lived or… not.”

He didn’t come right out and say it, but I heard it in his careful choice of words.  He was speaking only of the past.  I took that to mean that he cared now.

I turned in his loose embrace and reached for the onyx pendant.  Words tangled up in my chest, rose up and clogged my throat.  I honestly couldn’t imagine him… y’know.  Dead.  My very being rebelled at the thought.

“I need you,” I told him roughly, desperately trying to urge him to never consider giving up.

His arms tightened around me, drawing me nearer.  I braced myself on the sofa cushions and leaned in.  Our noses bumped.  Our lips brushed.  And then—

Bright light freakin’ _poured_ into the room and a soft whispering _whoosh_ registered in my brain.

Someone was sliding our front door open.

“The hell—?” I bitched, turning and glancing back over my shoulder.

And there on the threshold stood Howard, posing like a freakin’ superhero in a hazmat suit, a spiffy plastic helmet tucked under his skinny arm.

“Son of a bitch,” I informed him and he let loose with that wheezy geezer laugh of his.

“It’s nice to see you, too, Duo,” he replied happily as Trowa and I got to our feet.  “And I believe I owe you some best wishes and a round of congratulations.”

“Shove it,” I told him, grinning.  “You can buy the first round instead.”

When he laughed for a second time, I joined him.  Damn.  The cavalry had arrived.

And the adventure was just beginning.

 

 

And now there's fanart of [Howard in a Haz-Mat Suit](http://tewateroniakwa.tumblr.com/post/87851961827/so-awhile-back-i-was-directed-to-a-nice-little) by [Cat Paws](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/110661/) (on fanfiction.net) / [Tewateroniakwa](http://tewateroniakwa.tumblr.com/) (on Tumblr)

Go tell Cat how awesome she is! (^_^)b

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Trowa tells Duo he can have his soul for a song, unbeknownst to Duo, he’s using old mob slang. Someone who “sang” was a member of the mob who confessed to and/or cooperated with the enemy (e.g., the cops). I can kind of imagine this term carrying over to the world of mercenaries in After Colony. Basically, Trowa wants to hear a confession of the heart. He wants Duo to “sing”.


	8. Come Hell or High Water

# Chapter 8: Come Hell or High Water

_I can take your problems away with a nod and wave of my hand ‘cuz that’s just the kind of boy that I am…_

 

“What’s with the dead bodies?” I asked, hoping like hell that the pair of limp figures that a couple of goons I’d never seen before in my life were hauling out of the hall and into the bedroom were just knocked out and not actual casualties.

“They’re not dead,” Howard replied, giving me a look that questioned my sanity.  “How’re they gonna fool the heat sensors in this damn place and make everyone think you an’ Trowa are still in here if they’re dead?”

“Um, yeah.  OK,” I mumbled around my relief.  “So… if they’re gonna be us—”  I gestured to Trowa and myself.  Trowa was standing so close we might have been joined at the hip.  Literally.  There was a militant gleam in his eye that made my pulse spike.  Damn.  Was it just me or did the guy keep gettin’ freakin’ _sexier?_   “—then where are _we_ gonna be?”

This I asked as the goons dumped the unconscious guys on our unmade bed.  I assumed the poor schmucks were legitimate emergency workers but who the hell knew.  Maybe they’d been hired specifically for this task.  There was no time for curiosity, so I stuck to the script.

Howard tossed us a pair of hazmat suits.  Neither Trowa nor I moved to put them on.  Although I’d known this was the plan and I’d worked for it, I couldn’t appear too willing or they might consider leaving the other guys behind.  I focused on being friendly with Howard, but wary of the situation in general.  Trowa was just plain wary.

“You’re coming with us,” Goon Number One said, reentering the living room.

“Suit up,” the second ordered.

I stiffened out of pure reflex.  Nobody tells Duo Maxwell what to freakin’ do!

“And if we don’t?” Trowa challenged softly.

Goon Number One pulled out a riot-control-grade Taser which was pretty much self-explanatory.  I turned to Howard for an explanation.  “The hell, man?”

“I’m sorry, kid, but I need your help.  Someone’s gotten ahold of your Gundam.”

On cue, I boggled at him.  “Someone’s got my buddy Deathscythe?”  Which I’d left with Howard for him to hide and keep hidden at all costs after the war.

Howard nodded reluctantly.

“Who, goddammit?!”  I didn’t ask ‘how’ or ‘why’.  I was pretty sure this was just Howard’s idea of a ruse to get me to come along peaceably.  If someone really _did_ have my ‘Scythe, it could only be because Howard had freakin’ _given_ it to them, and if that was the case…  Yeah, he and I were gonna have a nice, _looong_ chat about that.

“Dammit, Duo,” he wheezed.  “There’s no time.  They’re rerouting power and the sensors are gonna be on-line any minute now!”

“Shit,” I complained.  I never once considered refusing, but I hesitated as if I were waffling over it.  It wasn’t as if I could say no, not with the bait Howard had dangled.  Deathscythe was my responsibility and if I didn’t make sure it was secure people could die.  So, in the end, I complied, pulling the white, plastic suit on over my clothes.  Trowa waited for me to finish suiting up before he stepped into his.  I smiled grimly; yeah, that was Trowa all right – always watching my back.

I stood still while he stuffed my braid down the back of my hazmat getup and then I turned toward him and tucked his distinctive bangs behind his ears as best I could.  Then the hazmat helmets went on and we were outta there.  A goon lingered to fiddle with what looked like one of those hack-‘n’-crack laptop deals.  I’d only ever used them when I’d had room in my pack or I’d been expecting exceptionally tight security.  Usually, popping the lid on the lock and hotwiring the damn thing was sufficient, but in this case an external power source was also needed.  Hence the fancy gizmo.

I was dying to ask about the others, but didn’t.  We moved quickly, heading for the emergency stairwell.  The hall was lit with yellow lights which blinked along the floor in a flow pattern, leading building occupants in the direction of the stairs.  Normally, the stairs were locked down and you _had_ to take the damn elevator.  Given the condition of the premises, however, it swung open without protest and we clamored down each flight to the ground floor.

The goons flanked me and Trowa as Howard took the lead.  I tried not to stare as Bret – wearing a gas mask – flagged down Howard and the old guy headed in his direction for a chat.  The goons kept moving us through the lobby, in the direction of the front doors, but I glimpsed Howard’s lips as he spoke.

“… suits are damaged.  Takin’ ‘em out for medical eval…”

Bret was nodding in completely non-suspicious agreement and I wondered if I’d ever cross paths with the guy again.  If I did, I’d damn well better hope he didn’t recognize me, so I guessed this was goodbye.  I spared a passing thought to giving him a farewell salute, but I wasn’t cocky enough to actually do it.  I just kept my head down and concentrated on where the hell I was going.

We passed several other hazmat guys on the way out.  No one studied us.  No one noticed that we weren’t one of their colleagues.  No one did the comical-yet-dreaded double-take which normally heralds a shout of discovery.  Trowa and I were led out to an ambulance and herded into the back of it.  The instant the doors closed, both Trowa and I had the stupid condom hats off and were looking over the space.  He tested the latch on the backdoor; it was locked.  I checked the panel separating the back from the driver’s seat; it was welded in place. 

I turned toward Trowa and he gave me a slight shake of his head.  Glancing at the door handle, I had to agree with him.  It was a completely closed system.  There was no way I could pick the lock from this side of the door.  It was nothing but painted steel on the inside with a lever protruding.

There were no windows.  Thanks to an overhead light, we could see what the hell we were doing, but there didn’t seem to be much that actually could be _done._

In silence, we checked the cubbies beneath the benches.  They were all empty of useful things like syringes, gauze, sports tape, IV line tubing, antiseptic spray…  You get the idea.  We had zero weapons except for our flimsy hazmat suits and what we’d walked out of the apartment wearing.  We were stuck in a small detention cell on wheels.

And then we started moving.

I glanced at Trowa before joining him on his bench.  As long as we were moving, it wasn’t likely we’d be attacked.  Of course, when we eventually stopped, it’d be better if Trowa and I split up.  Although I knew Howard and I trusted Howard, I didn’t know who these other bozos were and they hadn’t earned my trust.  Trowa’s either.  It was us against them until they proved their intentions were sympathetic toward us.  They could hardly expect anything else from a pair of guys who were purportedly so dangerous that a freakin’ War Tribunal had considered _euthanizing_ us.

As I had no idea how long this trip was gonna take, I figured we might as well spend it _not_ silently rehashing the unknowns and uncertainties in our heads.

“If someone found Heavyarms,” I began in a soft, somber tone, “would they be able to get in the cockpit?”

“Maybe,” he allowed, frowning.  His hair had tumbled back into place when he’d taken off the hazmat headgear and I studied his profile, watching the emotions cross his features.  “They wouldn’t be able to activate the main computer or armament systems.”  He glanced at me.  “Deathscythe?”

“Same,” I concurred.  “I sure hope nobody tries to force their way in because my buddy doesn’t take kindly to strangers.”  Even if someone managed to pop the hatch and get into the cockpit, trying to hack the system without the elaborate pass codes I’d implemented would only prompt the suit to defend itself.  _Aggressively._

“You miss it?” he whispered.  “Piloting?”

“Hah.  Only every minute of every damn day,” I confessed.  There was nothing – _nothing_ – like the roar of thrusters and the rush of acceleration; the G-forces that could tear you apart or merge you into one being with your mobile suit; the perfect synchronization of your thoughts and the suit’s movements, as if your fingers were the neurons connecting the two of you.  One mind and one body.

“You?” I asked Trowa.

He didn’t answer immediately and I blinked him back into focus.  “Yes,” he eventually said and then turned his gaze toward me and took his time studying me from the top of my head to the tips of my white plastic booties.  “But not like I used to.”

“Married life agrees with ya, babe?” I teased him, leaning back against the side of the fake ambulance.

He turned a bit to better keep me in his line of sight.  “Stop smiling,” he ordered playfully.

I felt my brows rise in challenge.  “Or else what?”

“Your husband will go insane.”

“Insane’s a nice place.  I’ve been there lots of times.”  I leaned my knee against his and tucked my hands behind my head.  “I highly recommend it.”

“My budget’s tight,” he retorted and I grinned maniacally.

“I think you’d be surprised how far that can get you.”

He leaned closer.  “Offering to show me around?”

I shrugged.  “Is there anything in particular you’d like to see?”

His green eyes glittered and his gaze burned a trail down my body.  “Landscapes.”

“Hm, that’s pretty non-specific.  Suppose the place I’ve got in mind doesn’t fit the bill?”

“Try me,” he growled and, just this once, I didn’t mind that it was an order.  I also didn’t mind that he turned toward me fully with a supple twist and then threw a leg over mine.  My breath caught in my throat as Trowa straddled my lap.

His hands settled on my chest and I dug my fingers into my hair to keep from reaching for him.  He bent down and pressed his lips to mine.  I felt a tug on the front of my plastic jumpsuit and then the soft growl of the zipper being pulled down.  Trowa’s lips parted and I mirrored him, shivering when his tongue languidly investigated my mouth.

“Mmm,” I complimented him, my hips jerking.

He rolled his in answer and I was pretty sure my toes curled but I was too busy tingling to really pay attention.  This was so not the place, but then again maybe it was.  I didn’t know what was gonna happen when we got wherever it was we were going.  Who knew when I’d have the chance to touch him like this again?  I vaguely recalled a time when I’d been flabbergasted by my urge to touch, taste, and tease him.  I didn’t question it anymore.  I simply couldn’t _not_ want him.

His thumbs brushed over my nipples through the fabric of my red shirt and I decided I’d better rein in his explorations.  I yanked my hands out from behind my head and fumbled for his hazmat gear zipper.  In two seconds flat, I had my hands under that damn green turtleneck and was bunching the fabric up over his belly as my fingers quested up his chest.

He shivered as I brushed his sides and then I was leaning forward, my fingers locking together at the small of his back as I pressed my mouth to his bare sternum.

“You’re supposed to be showing me someplace I’m not familiar with,” he reprimanded me breathlessly.

I wasn’t deterred.  “Oh, but you’d be surprised how a change of perspective can make something you took for granted fascinating.”

“You’re conning me.”

I looked up from the warm skin I’d been nuzzling and smirked.  “Whatcha gonna do about it?”

Note to self: dare Trowa to take the initiative more often.  I clutched his shoulders as he swooped down, tugged the neck of my shirt aside, sealed his mouth over the juncture of my neck and shoulder and proceeded to suck until I groaned.  Damn.  He was fuckin’ _marking_ me.  I should be irritated.  I should tell him how obnoxious he was being.  I wasn’t a freakin’ tree stump in his territory.

But the wood in my pants was kinda working against me there.

“Oh God, Trowa.  You’ve gotta stop…”

“Or else what?”

“Nuh…” I managed, luxuriating in the feel of his hips rocking against mine, his breath puffing against the damp love mark on my skin.  “Or else I’m gonna use your shirt for a towel.”

He chuckled darkly.  A single fingertip traced the bruise he’d just coaxed onto my skin and mused, “Now who’s marking whom?”

Oh, yeah.  He was mine.  There was nuthin’ like a big smear of, er, _stuff_ across his chest to announce it to the whole damn world.  I chuckled and looked up at him through my lashes, “We seem to have wandered into the realm of your primeval, caveman fantasies, haven’t we, baby?”

He narrowed his eyes at me.  “You call me ‘baby’ one more time and I will _not_ be held accountable for my actions.”  Trowa’s dangerously sensual purr did very noteworthy things to my libido.

“Tease,” I informed him, grinning.

He leaned down and breathed into my ear.  “You know you love it.”

I shivered.  Trowa seemed to be waiting for me to think up a comeback.  Trouble was, I was more interested in massaging the length of his toned thighs.

“Duo,” he admonished.  Or, he tried to, but it came out as more of a moan of invitation.

“What have you done to me?” I whispered, awed.  Here we were, captives of God-and-Howard-knows-who, going God-and-(hopefully)-Howard-knows-where, and all I could think of was stuff I was pretty sure was for mature audiences only.  “Why can’t I get enough of you?” I demanded as if it were all his freakin’ fault.

Trowa’s teeth gleamed as a smile of pure joy stretched his lips and, damn, it was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen.  His eyes squinted with happiness and glittered with hope.  He might have laughed or he might have answered my question if the ambulance hadn’t started to slow then.

Instantly, we were both on high alert.  Regarding the backdoor of the vehicle with a guarded expression, Trowa eased off of my lap and moved to the opposite bench.  He tugged his shirt down; I zipped mine up.  The icy, predatory light in his eyes mirrored mine and I wondered if we were gonna be facing a fight when those doors opened.  I was kinda lookin’ forward to that; a dark part of me wanted to see Trowa in action.

I could imagine it: his Silencer and my Shinigami, battling side by side.  Silence and death: did one cause the other or did the second beget the first?  One thing was certain; they were inexorably entwined.  One could not exist without the other.

Damn, that was almost poetic.  It was too bad now was not the moment for impressing Trowa with my philosophical genius.

The sound of footsteps reached us, but it was muffled by the metal doors.  I couldn’t begin to guess how many people were approaching, if they were walking on concrete or neo-steel.  All I could do was brace myself, try to stay out of Trowa’s way, trust him to look after himself if it came down to a fight—

The latch swiveled downward.  The door creaked open.  Light spilled inside and then—

“Duo!”

“H-hilde?” I stuttered, gawping at her bright smile.

“Who else, dumb-butt?” she teased me.

“Well… damn,” I muttered.  “Yeah, I guess it only makes sense they’d assign you to the welcome committee.”

She rolled her eyes at my lame observation and then turned toward my silent companion.  “Hello again, Trowa.”

“Hilde,” he replied, his tone carefully neutral.  Damn but it was hard to believe that, not five minutes ago, he’d been freakin’ sitting on my lap, smiling with delight.  He was all soldier now.  Which was what I also ought to be doing instead of standin’ around reminiscing.

I cleared my throat in order to regain Hilde’s attention.  “So, um, you look good.  New haircut?”

She sighed with fond exasperation.  “Jeez, Duo.”

Yeah.  My one-liners were pretty epic.  I was well aware of this.

“Well, c’mon out of there.  We’re on a schedule.”  With that, she swung the door wide open and I took in our surroundings with a glance.  We were inside a flight hangar and a shuttle was parked nearby.  A flight crew was going over it, clearly just wrapping up their pre-flight maintenance.  I spotted a few goons, but no one was pointing automatic weapons at us.  What a letdown.

“Is that our ride?  Can I pilot?”  This I asked excitedly as I swung myself down from the back of the pseudo-ambulance.

Hilde smacked me on the arm.  “Knock it off, buster.  As I’d rather get out of here in one piece, _I’ll_ be captaining today.”

“Hey, I’m a fantastic pilot,” I retorted, a tiny bit stung.  I reached back and helped Trowa down.  Not because he needed it, but because I wanted to be clear that wherever I go, he goes.

“And it’s been four years since you’ve been behind the yoke,” Hilde pointed out.

“Rubbing it in are we?” I rejoindered.  “When did you become so cruel?”

“It was inevitable without your sparkling influence to keep me on the path of light and rainbows.”

I laughed.  Oh God but I’d missed her.  I took a step forward and gave her a brisk hug.  “You’re somethin’ else, Schbeiker,” I informed her, patting her on the back as I set her back on her feet.

She smirked.  “So my better half tells me.”  Before I could ask who that might be and if I knew him – if not, he’d have to be Duo-approved, you understand – she pivoted toward Trowa and gave him a sweet smile.  “So now it’s up to you to keep this one out of trouble?”

He nodded solemnly.

My Trowa.  He was such a kidder.  I daringly threw an arm over his shoulders but restrained myself from ruffling his hair.  I think I might have sprained something trying to keep the impulse in check, but, by God, I managed it.  “Don’t let him fool you,” I told Hilde as she led us toward the shuttle.  “He secretly loves it.”

“Well, you’re very lovable,” Hilde rationalized, winking at Trowa.

Now, Trowa wasn’t nearly as scary as Heero, but I was impressed as hell that she was taking his stoicism in stride.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” she invited, gesturing us into the shuttle.

“What’s the in-flight movie?” I quipped, scanning the inside as Trowa took in the goings-on within the hanger one last time.

“Space, the final frontier,” she replied.  “Enjoy the view.”

Hell, she had no idea what a novelty it was gonna be to sit next to a bonafide window and watch the scenery pass by.  At least until we were free of the Earth’s atmosphere.  Even then, it’d be a marvel.  Damn, but I’d missed space.

“Look, Hilde,” I began, speaking quietly.  “I don’t wanna cause trouble but… who the hell are these guys?”

She frowned slightly.  “I can’t exactly give you names and references at the moment, Duo.”  She held up her arm and shook her wristwatch meaningfully.

“Yeah yeah, I get that we’re on a schedule here but, do you trust them?”

“Do you know how many laws I’ve broken on your behalf?” she replied earnestly.  “Just _today?”_

I could hazard a guess.  She continued before I could quote a number between one and a hundred.

“We need all the help we can get.  Now, unless you want to have a chat with some Preventer agents and their boss – a former Commander Une whom I believe you’re acquainted with? – we’ve got to hit the runway.”

“What about the others?” Trowa asked.

“Heero, Quatre, and Wufei?  Howard’s taking care of them.”  Hilde didn’t have to tell me that it was better for everyone involved if we split up.  That way, if one group was caught, the other might still have a shot at gettin’ airborne and space-bound.

“OK,” I allowed and finally stepped into the shuttle.  I chose a seat in the emergency exit row and Trowa sat beside me.  Hilde disappeared into the cockpit and, sure enough, a half dozen goonish-types wandered in and belted up a few seats away from me and Trowa, obviously flanking us.

I could tell Trowa didn’t really like this.  Hell, now that I was here and it was happening, I didn’t like it much, either.  Still, bitching about it wasn’t gonna win me any points with our potential allies.  Or future enemies.  Whichever they turned out to be.  Probably the latter.

“You’re not a fan of former Commander Une?” Trowa asked drolly, obviously turning his thoughts away from the same dark avenue that mine were also wandering.  I think he was trying to be teasing, but it was hard to tell what with his shoulders so stiff and his eyes constantly moving behind the fall of hair.

 _“She’s_ not a fan of _mine,”_ I corrected.  “And, call me immature, but I’m still not over that public execution gig she scheduled me for.”

Trowa’s lips twitched.  “Is that all?”

“Hey, you’re damn lucky I don’t hate you for tryin’ to blow up my buddy Deathscythe… on live television, pal.”

“Better it than you, Duo.”

He was right, but I didn’t want to admit it.  I crossed my arms and muttered, “Well, at least I got some sweet upgrades outta it.”

Suddenly, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to my temple.  When I glanced over at him, he was giving me that silent, laughing smile.  My lips were helpless against the pull to answer it with a grin.

Takeoff was uneventful, although yes, dammit, I did enjoy the scenery of the surrounding airport and tarmac.  Hilde ploughed our way through the Earth’s atmosphere with competence and a certain measure of haste that I could identify with.  The flight was long and, for most of it, I leaned my shoulder against Trowa.  He had his arm around me and, despite the weightlessness of space, I was probably squishing him – or at least putting pressure on a nerve cluster – but he never fidgeted.  He would just alternate between scanning the shuttle’s passenger section and sighing out a breath against my hair.

I had no idea what it was that made him content to be so openly affectionate with me.  His habits and mannerisms certainly hadn’t changed with regards to anyone else.  In the end (well, after thinking about it for half an hour or so), I chalked it up to the fact that we were still married and still supposed to be acting like it.

It was nice when his fingers drew little patterns against the leather of my jacket sleeve.  It was even kinda cool to see the end of my braid wound around his wrist to keep it from floating all over the damn place.  Plus, Trowa was warm.  That was the one thing about space travel that you always had to deal with: the cold.  It didn’t matter if the shuttle’s climate controls were set to replicate the average summer day in freakin’ Dubai; just seeing that blackness beyond the window and the chilling, white starlight which didn’t twinkle out here – no, it damn well _glared_ at you – made you want to shiver.

“You weren’t born on a colony, were you?” I mused.

“I don’t think so.”

“What made you choose it?  Space, I mean?” I pressed.

For the first time since we’d gotten engaged – hell, for the first time since he’d regained his lost memories during the war – he looked uncomfortable with a topic of conversation.  “I figured it had to be better than Earth.”

I remembered his personnel file and the references to the band of mercs he’d spent his childhood with.  Yeah, space was quieter in those days.  Not much fighting with bullets, anyway.  What would be the point when a stray missile could result in decompression, killing everyone on the whole damn colony?  Hell, _nobody_ wanted to die that way which was why the attack on Maxwell Church had been such a rallying point for years afterwards in L2.  Those damn ground-loving Alliance officers could have wiped out the whole frickin’ colony with a single, poorly calibrated targeting system.  Naturally, people were flamin’ pissed about that.  The fact that the Alliance had taken out a peaceful community church had only added righteous indignation to the already towering inferno of rage.

They say space colonists are outta their minds to live in a tin can, zooming through freakin’ vacuum, but we have a healthy respect for the unforgivable nature of space and we are not in the habit of poking the sleeping bear in the eye, thank you very much.

 “Was it?” I asked after a long moment of companionable silence.  “Was it better than Earth?”

“I don’t know,” he answered softly and I had to be satisfied with that.  It was clear he wasn’t gonna volunteer anything else.

The flight took almost thirteen hours by Trowa’s wristwatch and, in my opinion, that was about eleven hours too freakin’ long.

“Where the hell are we?” I griped, staring out the porthole window at the small colony just coming into view.  It was clear we were headed there; there was nothing else around for freakin’ hours’ worth of shuttle time.  And if this wasn’t our destination, I was gonna start bouncing off the damn walls.  Hilde really should have let me pilot.  It would have given me something constructive to focus on.

“I’m not sure…” Trowa murmured but, from his tone, I figured he could make a pretty good guess.  He didn’t sound particularly happy about this being our final stop, either.

I gave him a look, practically ordering him to spit it out.  He tilted his head slightly toward the goon across the aisle who was scrolling through something on a digital tablet.  It was probably porn.

I sighed and shut the hell up.  I’d figure out where the hell we were when we got there.  One thing was for sure: this place hadn’t even warranted a pit stop during the war.  Hell, it hadn’t even been a blip on my navigation charts.  So, either it was a brand spankin’ new colony or it had been in lockdown at the time.  I’d certainly never enjoyed a layover here.  I’d never hidden my Gundam in its shadow or refilled the cooling tanks by syphoning water from the colony reservoirs.

As we got closer, I could finally make out the ID number painted on the exterior skin of the floating city: X18999.

Never heard of it.

But, by the way he stiffened, Trowa knew a thing or two about this place.  “Damn it,” he gritted out and I took my time studying his tense posture and clenched jaw.  Yeah, I’d have to watch my step while we were here.  If the denizens of this colony weren’t allies of Trowa’s, then I highly doubted I’d be able to trust them.

It wasn’t as if I hadn’t expected that all along, but it was kind of a buzz knowing we were heading into actual enemy territory.

Hoo-rah.

“You ready for this?” Trowa rumbled softly in my ear, his fingers tightening on my arm in warning.

I chuckled darkly.  “Whoo, baby.  I was _born_ ready.”

“Lucky for me,” he muttered almost too softly for even me to hear.  But I _did_ hear him, so I elbowed him in the ribs and cackled.

“Hell hath no hormones like a 20-year-old guy,” I remarked, earning myself a playful shove in retaliation.

Docking seemed to take for frickin’ _ever_ and I was kinda surprised that I was this hyped up after thirteen hours of dozing fitfully and alternately sucking down packaged protein shakes and staring out the window.  The novelty of the latter still hadn’t worn off yet.

By the time the hatch had been vacuum-sealed and was swinging open, the only thing keeping me in my own skin was Trowa’s hand in mine.  I think I was clutching him a little too hard, but he didn’t complain.  The goons waited for us to exit the ship first.  I led the way, but I could feel Trowa’s hand on my lower back, ready to grab ahold of my waistband and pull me out of the way of oncoming bullets.  Or so I imagined.

Hilde was still running through the post-flight checklist, so it looked like Trowa and I would be setting foot in unfamiliar territory all by ourselves.  I could hear the six goons behind us, herding us toward the hatch and I hated that Trowa was between me and them.  I had no idea who we could trust here.  I mean, I trusted Hilde, but did she even know who these people were or what they wanted from us?  Just how aware was she in the midst of all this?

Both excellent questions.  Too bad I hadn’t had the chance to ask her.

We cycled through the airlock together, waiting for the sensors to approve us and whatever bacteria we were inadvertently carrying. By the time the lights finally blinked green and the door slid open, I’d imagined every possible scenario awaiting us: an automatic-weapon-toting army, a colony bureaucrat complete with smarmy smile, AC 199’s freakin’ Miss L2 waving from a parade float…  Every possible situation _except_ for the one that actually greeted us.

I blinked at the young girl – I guess she was about ten or twelve years old – with short, vibrant red hair and eyes which blazed with something more than just youth, something just about as inspirational as Quatre’s We-can-and-we-will! persona.  She was wearing a simple but very pretty light green dress.  Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her and I imagined she would have been fidgeting with excitement if not for the formal mannerism.

“Welcome to X18999,” she said, her luminous gaze moving from me to Trowa and back again.

“Er, thanks,” I replied, wondering where the army, the bureaucrats, and the beauty queens were.  Oh, and Howard and the other guys.

She must have noticed the way Trowa and I swept the transport bay with our gazes because she said, “The others will arrive soon with your friend Howard.”

“What’s the ETA?” I asked her.  I wasn’t sure if she could answer this question with any degree of authority.  She was only a child, after all, but there was something about her that warned me not to treat her like a little girl despite the disarmingly innocent getup she was in.

“Two hours, fifty minutes,” she answered immediately.  “I’ll take you to your rooms so you can settle in.”

“Um, OK.”  I knew it wasn’t very intelligent, but it seemed like some sort of response was required and that was the best I could come up with.

She turned on her heel as if to dance away from us toward the exit.  It occurred to me that there was still a lot that I didn’t know.  First and foremost—

“Hey, hold up.  You obviously know who we are, but who are you?”

The young girl pivoted around gracefully on her patent leather shoe and curtsied.  “My name is Mariemeia,” she informed us.

I inexplicably felt as if I should have recognized her.  I didn’t.

“You’ll like your rooms!” she continued with bizarre amounts of confidence.  Christ, she might as well have been royalty the way she carried herself.  Just watching her, it was easy to forget that Trowa and I were being hidden on this out-of-the-way, all-but-invisible colony from the authorities.  I mockingly wondered if we’d be knighted in exchange for defending her honor.

Fairytale princesses in green dresses aside, I still had no idea _who_ had helped Howard and Hilde smuggle us outta Winner Enterprises, Inc.  Nor did I have anything except Hilde’s assertion and this child’s word that the other three guys had been extracted, too.  And, to top it all off, nobody was cluing me in on what the hell these yet-to-be-revealed boss-type-bozos were gonna want from us.

Although, I was pretty sure they hadn’t brought us here to sign autographs.

As Mariemeia began to lead the way again, Trowa and I followed, sticking close to each other but trying not to be too obvious in our suspicions.  The goons trailed behind us half a dozen paces, probably trying to be non-threatening.  They failed epically.

“Are you a guest here, too?” I asked our cheerful guide since Trowa didn’t seem inclined to say much.

“Oh, no.  This is my home.”

As I hadn’t seen much of it so far, I couldn’t really comment on that.  Hopefully, this was a normal, functioning colony with other kids her age and schools and summer festivals and crap like that.  There was something about little Mariemeia that made me want an idyllic world for her.

“Do you like it here?”

“Hmm…” she began, drawing out the note as she thought out her answer.  “It has a lot of potential.”

“Is that so?”

She nodded.

“How many people live here?” I charmingly interrogated her.  I kept the conversation ball merrily bouncing along as we marched (or, rather, as we _were_ marched) down the neo-steel halls.  Mariemeia was so disarmingly enthusiastic when speaking of her home here that I could almost believe we were in heaven on-Earth-orbit.  Almost, but not quite.

See, every populated and industrious colony in existence has one thing in common: the ever-present hum of machinery hard at work, serving the humans who maintain it.  There’s a pulse – an artificial and precise heartbeat – that permeates every nook and cranny of a colony.  Whenever you passed by an air vent, you could hear it whooshing.  Whenever you walked barefoot or pressed your palm against the metal walls, you could feel it vibrating, shaking to a beat from an inaudible orchestra.  A colony was a machine and the only time it was ever silent was at the end of its life, when wear and tear and damage too great to be repaired overtook it.  In space, silence spelled death, not only for the machine, but for its people.

We were currently strolling down a corridor in a place just like that.  Although I could feel air moving and there was a distant hum of power and productivity, it was off-key.  Too quiet.  As if X18999 was a colony in a coma and we were inside its sluggishly beating heart.

I didn’t for a moment believe that this place could be anybody’s home.  And that meant I couldn’t trust our liar of a guide.  No matter how innocent or well-meaning or _charming_ she appeared to be.

“Your rooms,” Mariemeia suddenly announced, dancing to a graceful halt.

I let out a breath of relief and Trowa’s shoulders visibly relaxed as the single door she’d indicated whispered open.  I’d been assembling my arguments against putting us up in separate rooms, but it looked as if I wouldn’t be needing them.  I peered through the doorway and took in the very comfortable suite beyond.

“Please make yourselves at home,” she invited.

Neither Trowa nor I budged.

“I’m gonna wanna see the others when they arrive,” I told her.  I made sure my expression and tone made it clear that this point was nonnegotiable.

“Of course,” she agreed easily.  “But I imagine they’ll be tired after the shuttle ride.”

I highly doubted they’d be too tired to want to see Trowa and me, but Mariemeia continued happily, “Let’s all have dinner together.  I’ll be back at eighteen hundred hours to show you the way.”

I glanced back into the room, noting the presence of a clock which appeared to be accurate.  “Sounds good.”

“Have someone inform us when they’ve arrived safely,” Trowa commanded softly, interjecting a wealth of assumptions into that single sentence.

Mariemeia didn’t even blink in response to the implication that she was in a position to not only tell someone to contact us, but ensure that the others remained unharmed.  “Certainly!”

And there was really nothing left to do but get outta the damn hall.  Feeling like I was trading one prison cell for another, I strode across the threshold with my accompanying Trowa-shadow.

The door slid shut behind us and, naturally, that was precisely the moment when I “remembered” something I should have asked our guide about earlier.  I jogged back to the door as Trowa looked on from the center of the nicely furnished living room, and hit the lock release button.  The door immediately whooshed back open and I was mildly surprised that we _weren’t_ locked in after all.

But I had a question to ask and, as it was a relevant one, I knew I’d better get on with spitting it out instead of standing here marveling.

“Miss Mariemeia!” I called, poking my head back into the corridor.  She and her entourage had only gone about a dozen steps down the hall where they had paused.  The girl appeared to be quietly speaking with a random goon and I was struck by how the ginormous oaf leaned toward her, differing to her in telling silence and subservient body language.

Hmm…

“Yes, Mr. Maxwell?” she asked, looking for all the damn world as if she were delighted at the prospect of being helpful.

“Er, if we need anything, who do we buzz on the comm. unit?”

“Oh!  Yes,” she began, agreeing that I’d asked something pertinent, indeed.  “Just open the line and tell the operator what you need.  You’ll be connected with someone who can help you.”

“Ah, great.  Thanks.  See you at dinner.”  I waved and stepped back into the suite.

“Nice,” Trowa complimented me as he eyed the state-of-the-art entertainment set.  I knew he wasn’t remarking on the luxuries because his gaze shifted momentarily to the door behind me.

“Yeah.  Lots to keep us outta trouble until the others get here,” I volunteered, playing along as I looked over the room with an eye toward spotting surveillance equipment.  I was pretty sure we were being watched – hell, if I were the guy in charge of busting us outta WEI and whisking us off into space, I’d want to keep an eye on us – but it’d be nice to know which angles and what kind of cameras they were using.

“Eighteen hundred hours,” Trowa reminded me and my lips twitched into a knowing grin.

Yeah, I’d caught that, too.  Little girls didn’t normally go around using military time in casual conversation.  Even in the colonies, where you’d expect people to adopt a more pragmatic approach to life in general, they stubbornly stuck to the a.m. and p.m. system.  Not because they felt any kind of connection to Earth, but because it suggested a certain level of mastery over the great, beastly void of space beyond.  _We_ decided when it was morning, afternoon, and evening.  _We_ controlled our lives.  _We_ had nothing to fear from the infinite realm of the universe out there.

So, something was clearly up.  The military-oriented telling of time was strange all by itself, but the way Random Goon had all but bowed down before her had just capped off my bottled up suspicions.  And then, of course, there was Trowa’s initial reaction when he’d identified this colony as our destination.  Something was up and I bet he could tell me a thing or two about this place, but I wasn’t sure if it was anything he could say in a compromised room.  He’d volunteer whatever he could, if he could.  Meanwhile…

“Eighteen hundred hours,” I agreed in a significant tone, letting Trowa know that I was on the same page as him and reading between the same lines.

We worked the rooms, going through all the drawers, closets, and cabinets; looking under, in, and around the furniture; inspecting electrical outlets.  The only room with windows was the bedroom and I took it upon myself to pull back the curtains.  I fiddled with the blinds, listening to Trowa rummaging in drawers behind me.  I’d just gotten the hang of the archaic pulley-system – and let out a crow of delight at my accomplishment – when Trowa snapped at me.

“Stop playing around.”

The words and his tone were so reminiscent of an early-wartime Trowa Barton that I turned and gaped at him.  He slammed the bedside bureau drawer shut and straightened.  A brief look of apology crossed his oddly flushed face before he stormed into the attached bathroom.

Curious (and, yeah, maybe a little stung), I reached out and opened the drawer that he’d just abandoned.  He’d shoved it shut so quickly I wondered if it contained a nest of poisonous snakes.  Of course, once I figured out what I was seeing in there, I understood his reaction completely.

I gawped.  A wide variety of condoms, a selection of lubricants and no less than three dildos – all still in their retail packaging – plus a pair of cock rings stared back at me.

_Oh… hell._

I shut the damn drawer twice as fast as Trowa had and then I went looking for my partner.

“You’re forgiven,” I informed him, stepping up behind him in the bathroom.  He was staring into the mirror over the sink as if it had the power to divulge the secrets of the universe.

I stood up on the balls of my feet, wrapped my arms around his waist, and propped my chin on his shoulder.  It was kinda inconvenient being noticeably shorter than your supposed spouse, I decided.  But it wasn’t as if I could go back in time and correct a decade of malnourishment.  Hell, even if I’d had two or three square meals a day like Trowa had as a kid, I _still_ might have been shorter than him.  So, really, there was no point in dwelling on it.

I figured Trowa wasn’t all that keen to discuss the assumptions our invisible hosts had made about our sex life, so I turned my face toward him and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck.

“What do you think about us getting a cat?” I asked instead and a beat of silence echoed between us before Trowa actually threw back his head and laughed.

It wasn’t an echoingly loud belly laugh or a crass guffaw or anything like that, but his whole body shook with mirth.

I grinned in triumph of the accomplishment.

Relaxed now, Trowa met my gaze in the mirror and responded, “I think you’re insane.”

“And you _like_ that about me,” I declared with cocky confidence.  “I can tell.”

Trowa turned in my embrace then and, leaning back against the counter, he tugged me forward until I was straddling his casually crossed legs.  Chest-to-chest, he kissed me.  Maybe it was a reward for sussing out some of his thoughts or maybe it was retaliation for teasing him.  Whatever it was, it was damn _nice._   His hands rested on my hips and mine grasped his waist and holy-damn-wow it was hot.  I found myself remembering our interrupted make-out session against the wall yesterday evening, recalling the heat of him against the inside of my thigh when I’d hooked my knee over his hip and wondered what he’d do if I…

“Ah, God, Trowa…!” I informed him mid-kiss.  I was frickin’ _nanometers_ away from begging for mercy.  I couldn’t fight the way I felt when he touched me anymore, but I couldn’t let myself forget that we were each playing a role here.  Our marriage wasn’t real and when this mission was over with…

“I could kiss you forever,” Trowa rumbled.

My eyes popped open – damnitall, why was I always _closing_ them? – and I shivered at the earnest look he gave me before lowering his mouth to my neck and returning the kiss I’d given him a few minutes earlier.  “Yeah?” I struggled to say.  “Pretty sure that would defy the laws of physics.”

“Hmm,” he agreed, pulling me closer and fitting his hips against my crotch.  “Sounds like a challenge.”

“Oh?  You like those, too, huh?”  This I asked as my fingers delved beneath the hem of his shirt.

“I like _you,”_ he retorted, punctuating the sentence with a brief, hot lick.  “Or did you already forget that?”

“Short attention span,” I admitted, my hips grinding against his.  Oh, God.  This could not be comfortable for him but damned if I could make myself stop.

“One flying tackle coming up.”

I don’t know why I didn’t expect him to make good on that, but, well, I didn’t.  I yelped when his hands grabbed my ass, hefting me up as he straightened.  “Dammit, Trowa!” I cussed, wrapping my arms and legs around him to keep from falling.  “Put me the hell down!”

“Keep your shirt on,” he rebuked and then, pausing, amended, “Or… don’t.”

I couldn’t think of a comeback in the time it took for him to cross the three meters between the bathroom and the spacious bed.  He didn’t toss me down on the mattress and beat his chest like I half-expected he would.  (Well, OK, it was highly doubtful that Trowa would ever beat his chest like some kind of Amazonian caveman, but I was having some very interestingly mixed feelings over the mental picture it drummed up.)  He laid me down gently, following and flowing with the colony-spin-generated gravity until he was blanketing me.  My legs were still wrapped around his hips; we were both still fully clothed; we still hadn’t finished looking over the room for wires, bugs, and cameras…

“Someone might be watching,” I breathed into his ear.  I sounded desperate even to myself.  Shit.  I was a total lost cause and I knew it.

“I don’t care,” he breathed back.  He picked himself up off of me a bit, bracing himself on his elbows, and looked down, meeting my gaze.  “I want you,” he confessed and I could see how dark his eyes were and that glow of hopeful-wanting-something was back in full force.

“Ah, fuck it,” I said, caving.  “Me, too, baby.”  I reached for the hem of his shirt.

He groaned my name and damned if it wasn’t the _sexiest_ fuckin’ thing I’d ever heard.  If we’d had a change of clothes, we might not have bothered shedding the ones we were wearing, but, to hell with it.  Skin on skin was better anyway.  There was something _necessary_ and _irresistible_ about peeling off those layers to get to the essence of your lover underneath.

Damn.  Trowa and I were lovers.  I wasn’t sure what I’d thought we were before.  Maybe friends with awesomely sweaty benefits?  But, hell, there was no denying it now.  We should have been finishing up our sweep of the place instead of enjoying a little horizontal mambo.  And I did enjoy it – hell, when Trowa ran his fingers over my balls, I nearly _screamed_ – even though it wasn’t real.  Couldn’t be real.  When the mission was over, so was this and I didn’t think I wanted it to end, but I didn’t think I could handle it if this went on indefinitely and _oh shit what was he doing with his tongue?!_

I clutched his shoulders as he licked my navel, my hips rocking against his chest.  I was desperate for friction and equally desperate that he not quest any lower with that mouth.  I couldn’t—it wasn’t—I just didn’t want—!

“Kiss me,” I gasped out, pulling on his arms.  I was freakin’ _inundated_ in a wave of relief when, with one last nuzzle and sucking kiss, he slid back up to me and joined our lips.  Oh, yes.  _This_ was where his mouth belonged.  Oh, God.  I’d kill for him to do that lip-sucking thing again… ooohhh… yes.  Just like that.

His hips surged-thrust-ground against mine and I locked my ankles together at the small of his back, my hands grabbing and clutching whatever part of him I could reach.  He was groaning as his tongue moved over mine and I messily kissed him back.  Eventually, I had to give up.  My concentration was required elsewhere.  I was dimly aware of my legs falling open, of my hands reaching for his ass, and then he moaned with abandon, stiffening in my arms.  The sight of his lips – wet and puffy – falling open as his eyes unfocused sent me over the edge right along with him.  I hissed his name between gritted teeth as pulse after pulse blew me away.

“Fuck,” I remarked some seconds or minutes later when I realized I was still alive and in one piece.  Sort of.  “Super nova.”

“Hmm,” Trowa agreed and I tried not to laugh.  Damn, was he always this freakin’ docile after sex?  Oddly enough, it made me feel like it was _my_ turn to watch his back, like I couldn’t just nod off like my body was begging me to do because how could I leave Trowa bare-assed defenseless?

Still draped over me, he dozed off.  Somehow, he just freakin’ ignored the goop sandwiched between our bellies and commenced with the classic crash ‘n’ burn.  I think he even drooled on the pillow next to my shoulder.

I gave him fifteen minutes, and then I started running my hands up and down his back.  He didn’t wake up at first – which just goes to show you how deep he’d gone under – and I wondered again where all these scars had come from.  I kept hesitating to ask.  Asking meant I thought I was owed an answer and this was personal, a helluvalot more personal than why he’d come to outer space or why he’d saved my damn braid during the war.  These scars were his and his alone and if I asked him to share that with me, I’d be expecting him to share himself by extension.  Our arrangement didn’t give me that right.

Even though I kinda wanted it.

Now, wasn’t that a kick in the balls?

Unsettled by the direction of my own thoughts, I called his name.  It took a few tries but he stirred a bit.  Taking advantage of his near-conscious state, I rolled him off of me.  I made a face at the mess that was revealed and then I dashed into the bathroom for cleanup supplies.

“Why is it, if you’re the janitor, I always end up with mop-up duty?” I halfheartedly complained as I wiped and dabbed.

“Hmm,” he replied.  “Just lucky, I guess.”

I rolled my eyes and tossed a blanket over us now that we were mostly clean.  The towels got dumped on the floor and we’d both need showers before dinner, but to hell with it.  I could lie here for a bit.  My eyelids drooped, but I kept myself awake by combing through his red-brown hair, ostensibly counting the strands.

A call came in not long thereafter and I picked up the handset on the bedside bureau to take it.  Some faceless goon informed me that the others had arrived.  I insisted on speaking with them.  Quatre was the one who picked up the handset.

“You guys OK?” I checked, both wishing for a video feed and glad I wasn’t subjecting Q-man to the sight of a rumpled me wearin’ nuthin’ but a snazzy blanket.

“Yes.  We’re all fine, Duo.  Confused, but…”

“Yeah.  Maybe we’ll get answers at dinner.  We’ll be seeing you guys there, OK?  Eighteen hundred hours.”

“Roger that.”

And then we hung up.

When I rolled back toward Trowa, I watched his sleepy green eyes drift shut again and I knew he’d gotten most of it.

At five o’clock, I shoved his ass outta bed and commanded him to get into the damn shower.  I was expecting bitchy resistance, which was what I’d have responded with, but he merely hummed, kissed me deeply, and wandered into the bathroom.  After I got done feeling all warm and fuzzy, I picked up his forgotten clothes and tossed them onto the bathroom counter for him.

Once he was done, it was my turn and a quarter to six found us sitting on the sofa in the living room, dressed and ready to go.  I was leaning on Trowa, my cheek against his temple as I sat on my knees on the cushions.  He was fiddling with the zippers on my leather jacket.  Neither one of us had much to say.  Pretty much everything that _could_ be said in a potentially insecure room _had_ been said.  Now we were just waiting – conserving our strength – for whatever might come to light at dinner.

Part of me just wanted to stay here in these rooms forever.  I didn’t want to think about the future or the past.  I didn’t want to worry about crazy mad bastard egomaniacs out to cause trouble and maybe start a war.

I sighed.  I’d started this freakin’ mess and now it was up to me to clean it up, even if it meant that I really _did_ have to face a madman with death and glory on the brain.

My heart sank when our doorbell chimed at eighteen hundred hours exactly.  Damn.  Back to real life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I once saw an image of a smiling and laughing Trowa in an official Gundam Wing art book and that inspired the smile he gives Duo in the back of the ambulance and the laugh in the bathroom. Although Trowa does laugh once during the series, it’s kind of creepy since he and Heero are chatting about effective methods of suicide. *shudders*
> 
> There are several references to events in the Gundam Wing series here as well as a few nods to the Episode Zero manga. If you have any questions, PM me or leave a signed review and I’ll get back to you. Basically, all references to their pasts are canon.
> 
> I’m totally making up the flight duration. It takes four days (give or take a few hours) to get to the moon with our current technology, but I’m assuming that in the world of After Colony civilization, things have sped up considerably.
> 
> Also, in the series, it looks like there actually was fighting on the colonies before the Gundams went to Earth to cause trouble for the Alliance, but that never made much sense to me. What if a laser, bullet, or missile punctured the hull? Would they stop fighting long enough for it to get patched before decompression destroyed the whole place? How long would that take, anyway? Long enough for someone to suit up in a mobile repair unit and do something about it? Hm. Anyway, in this reality, ammunition and colonies don’t mix.
> 
> We are now getting into my re-make of Endless Waltz. Lots of events will be different, although I think the cast of characters and their motivations will remain unchanged. For the most part.


	9. Burn a Bridge or Two

# Chapter 9: Burn a Bridge or Two

_I’ve found the safest place to keep all our old mistakes…_

 

“Thank you for inviting us to dinner, Miss Mariemeia,” Quatre told our young hostess.  “I think I speak for everyone here when I say we’re finding it greatly enjoyable.”

I glanced away from Quatre’s charming smile and Mariemeia’s slight blush to check on Heero and Wufei.  From the wooden expressions on their faces, I was pretty sure what they were feeling was a helluvalot closer to greatly _annoyed._

I could relate.

So far, all we were doing was sitting around and slurping our fancy-schmancy cold soup.  The hell, right?  It was only a matter of time before somebody frickin’ snapped.  And, as it just so happened, that fateful moment was fulfilled by none other than Wufei “I Have No Patience With Dithering” Chang.

“Why.  Are we _here?”_ he demanded and I had to clutch my silver spoon to keep from applauding.

“You’re here,” Mariemeia answered smoothly – Christ, was she an _actual_ 12-year-old or a seasoned politician masquerading as one? – “because you accepted my invitation.”

“I wasn’t aware that one had been extended,” he retorted with enough snootiness to do me proud.  His comment also made me wonder what Howard had done or said to get everyone else’s asses on a shuttle.  It must have been a helluva line.

“Oh, yes,” Mariemeia replied, smiling.  “And I’m very glad you all came.  I hate how the people of Earth have treated all of you.”

“And just how have they treated us?” I said a bit snarkily, as if it were a sore point.  Which it was.  So, I wasn’t trying to hide it.

“That’s obvious,” our 12-year-old hostess answered.  “After the five of you saved the planet, the people of Earth threw you away.”

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.  _Euthanasia_ was a better example of throwing us away.  What they were doing, however, was using us, taking advantage of our guilt complexes, browbeating us into servitude.  Oh, yeah.  I’d figured it out ages ago.  I let Quatre and Wufei handle this rebuttal, though.

“That was partially at our discretion,” Quatre admitted, attempting to deflect the implication that we’d been helpless, which we most definitely had not been.  We had been complacent, though, and that chafed like a sonuvabitch.

“We have not been discarded,” Wufei added stiffly.  “We still serve a purpose.”

“Hm, yes.”  Her tone was the verbal equivalent of wadding up Wufei’s words and chucking them into the garbage can.  “As important as that purpose may be—”  Gee, facetious much?  “—you can do much more here.”

Uh… huh.  We were back to the uncertain and slightly-mythical Here.  I knew for a fact that schools and towns and entire freakin’ colonies were being rebuilt thanks in part to the funds WEI generated.  Hell, Wufei knew it better than the rest of us as he’d been stuck in Accounting for the last four years.  I wasn’t really sure that _Here_ had the same kind of potential to offer.  The glimpse I’d taken out our bedroom window had revealed a small, grassy courtyard surrounded by what looked like more suites just like the one Trowa and I had been given.  Looking up, I’d seen the metal dome of the colony “sky” but for all I knew nothing else had been developed or maintained in this tin can.  I could tell the others were thinking the same damn thing.

“What do you propose?” Heero finally asked, cutting through the thickening silence.

“Stay here and help us establish true equality for the colonies.”

She made it sound so freakin’ simple.  Her impassioned tone even tickled my fancy, inviting me to believe that such a thing were possible.  It wasn’t, of course.  I didn’t need Trowa’s restraining hand on my knee to tell me that, but it was a nice gesture nonetheless.  (And hell yeah, I was thoroughly enjoying it!)

Quatre posed a question about Relena’s most recent trade policy amendment and I just had to take a time-out and have a moment.  I could not freakin’ believe that we were sitting here, ignoring our bowls of soup that would never _go cold,_ talking politics with a _child._   How could we seriously talk about our collective fates and futures with this girl?  But I knew the answer to that just like everyone else here did: she was the front.  We were gonna have to go through _her_ to meet the real mastermind behind whatever the hell we’d been sucked into.  It was possible that we hadn’t met the bastard yet because he (or she) was waiting to see how desperate we were; he/she was watching and studying us, hoping to figure out just what kind of carrot to dangle in front of our noses in order to ensure our cooperation.  Or maybe the guy (girl?) was just plain too busy plotting a hostile takeover of the known universe to stop by and shake hands.  But I was assuming we _hadn’t_ met this very important person yet, wasn’t I?

It was possible the head honcho was in this very room.  Perhaps he was the server with the white towel over his arm.  Maybe he was one of the two guards standing by the door and within easy reach of the comm. unit.  If it were me, that’s how I’d do it.  I’d grab a smart disguise, toss some disarming young kid at the group of trained assassins I was trying to flatter, and then shake – not stir – and see what poured out.

“Seems to me,” I interjected as Mariemeia paused for breath in her lecture on how the colonies are kept subjugated to the resource monopolies on Earth, “that you’re doing to us pretty much the same thing that the people on Earth did: you’re trying to tell us what we should do with our lives.”

Silence echoed.  Whoo yeah.  Point to me for being crass and obnoxious.  See, that was the balance I knew I’d have to juggle if I wanted these bozos to trust me enough to let me into a mobile suit – preferably my ol’ buddy Deathscythe – because then it’d be all over for them.  Attempted revolution and/or coup d’état status: squished.  Former Gundam pilots’ collective street cred with the whole damn world: awesome.

Yeah, I was out to turn us into heroes.  That was the plan.  Happy now?  Only, in order for us to come out smellin’ like Khushrenada-red-roses, we needed a bad guy to defeat.  Which was pretty much why I’d gotten on the damn shuttle in the first place.  The guys backing Howard and – as it turned out – Hilde had to be packing some serious heat, otherwise Howard wouldn’t have bothered sending that email.  Back when things had started snowballing south on the road to Hell for the five of us, I’d told Howard that the only way we’d ever get our lives back was to fight and win a _second_ damn war.

“Whoever you get to bust us outta wherever the hell we’re goin’ had damn well better be planning to take over the freakin’ planet,” I’d growled.

“You got it, kid,” he’d replied.

They’d been our parting words, so I was pretty sure the ol’ geezer still remembered ‘em.  It was too bad I couldn’t confirm that with him at the moment.  Both he and Hilde were conspicuously absent.  I figured I’d better assume they were in a holding cell somewhere, having completed their assigned tasks of delivering the five of us.  Before the final phase of my mission blasted off, I was gonna have to make sure they were safe and secure.

“I’m not telling you what to do,” Mariemeia finally answered.  “I’m giving you another chance to do some good for the colonies.  It’s my hope,” she continued in a dreamy tone that almost reminded me of that creepy Dorothy girl.  God, I hoped _she_ wasn’t the one behind all this.  Mariemeia’s schpiel did sound eerily like her bullshit during the war, though.  Not a comforting thought.  “It’s my hope that we’ll be able to work together to realize a greater vision.”

 _And whose might that be?_ I didn’t ask.  I cued Trowa by tapping the back of his hand which was still resting on my thigh.

“Perhaps if you shared it with us…?” my partner suggested in an intriguingly neutral tone.  I sensed a sudden sharpening of attention around the table: _all_ of us wanted to know what the game was here.  I was pretty sure _none_ of us were gonna wanna play it, though.

But we _were_ gonna be playing.  It was a given.  Yeah, Heero’d freakin’ bought into all that shit about us not deserving a second chance, but he wasn’t the type to roll over and let someone stomp all over him.  Not really.  The last week or so had been an aberration, not the norm.  Hell, even Mr. Perfect had his limits.  I was also counting on Wufei to come on board (for frickin’ once Mr. Shut-The-Fuck-Up-I-Can-Handle-It-Without-You-Bitches was gonna be a team player or _else)_ to defend the peace he’d won in part thanks to his people’s sacrifice.  Quatre was the biggest gamble.  How much of the soldier who’d bested Zero was still in there, buried under all that damn paperwork and monotony?  It was hard to say.  Still, whether they wanted to be here or not, whether they wanted to fight for peace or not, here we all were.  And really, the only way they couldn’t be denied credit for saving the damn world again was if they _were_ here, at ground zero so to speak.

“It really comes down to the issue of sustainable biodiversity,” Mariemeia answered.  “We all know that the colonies depend on Earth for its agriculture.  Livestock, crops, even the bees used for pollination all come from Earth.  But, within a few generations, those creatures die out.”

I was aware of this.  It was one of the reasons L2 had been in such bad shape when I was a kid.  The die-off of plants and animals was a serious problem and one scientists hadn’t been able to solve yet; by the third or fourth generation, livestock birthrates nosedived, plants took longer and longer to sprout and mature with each growing cycle, bees quickly lost touch with the artificial magnetic field generated by the colony, making them incapable of finding their way back to the hive.  It was as if each generation got simpler and slower until the species sabotaged its own existence.

Mariemeia summed it up nicely with, “We mean to even that score.”

“How?” Heero demanded.  It was a risky question to ask at this stage, dangerously blunt.  We might push our hostess and her invisible puppeteer too far and end up making enemies out of them before I could get all of us in a position to kick their asses with style.  But that’s Heero for you.  If he’d ever backed down from a fight or a challenge, then I certainly didn’t know about it.

“That’s why you were invited here,” the girl seated like a queen at the head of the table responded smoothly.  “The colonies will always be dependent on the Earth, but that’s no reason to take advantage of our position.  What do you think we should do?”

Spoken like a true politician.  Or a 12-year-old being coached via earwick.

“Have you contacted Relena Darlian?” Quatre inquired.  “It’s my impression that she is very eager to assist the colonies.”

“Yes, we’re in the process of negotiating with her now.”

For some reason, I really didn’t care for the way that sounded.  Heero didn’t like it much, either; he kind of tensed before he forced himself to lift his soup spoon and take a sip.

Still speaking to Quatre, she proposed, “Perhaps you would consent to being our representative, Mr. Winner?”

“Foreign Minister Darlian represents the colonies’ best interests,” Wufei pointed out harshly.

Mariemeia wasn’t the slightest bit cowed by his gruff tone and icy stare.  “Relena Darlian is from Earth.  She doesn’t understand what it’s like to be a colonist.  She can’t.”

I figured this was where I came in.  “So… you’re gonna appoint your own rep and defy the whole United Earth Sphere.”  I was kinda proud of how that came out.  It cut through the bullshit piling up in the room rather nicely.

Unfortunately, she ignored the direct attack.  Smiling, she mused, “I think _you_ could also help us, Mr. Maxwell.  Until the Earth governments change their ways, we’ll need to find a way to renew our resources at a fair price.”

Wow.  What a nice way of asking me to consider dealing with the black market and arranging smuggling routes for the betterment of the colonies.  If it hadn’t been so blatantly obvious that she was sucking up to me, I would have been a teeny tiny bit flattered.  I leaned back in my chair and commenced with looking wary but pensive.

“You know I wanna help the colonies,” I replied, playing on my reputation for being a rebel.  I was dangling a carrot of my own out there just to see who’d go for a bite.  “I’m just not sure that what you’re proposing is the best way to go about it.  Seems to me we might all be old and grey by the time negotiations make any headway.”

Trowa’s fingers dug painfully into my thigh in the wake of that little bomb, but I ignored the inherent warning he was attempting to convey.  I knew what I was doing; I was taking the enemy’s eye off of the others and painting a nice, big bull’s eye on my forehead.  Whoo yeah.  Bring it.

Still leaning back in my chair, I propped my elbow up on the back of Trowa’s and plopped my chin into my palm as I waited for the response Mariemeia was gonna deliver.

“Duo…” Quatre began hesitantly.

I cut in before he could publically declare his undying resistance to what I was implying.  “I’m not saying we should charge in with guns blazing or anything.  Been there, done that… and it didn’t work out so well in the end, did it?” I readily admitted.  “But this ain’t no war.  It’s just, y’know, the colonies are the underdogs here.  We fought to change that last time, but we kinda blew it.  If we could somehow gain the upper hand over Earth, though…”

Quatre looked horrified.  Wufei looked ready to run me through with his fancy sword, wherever it was these days.  Heero’s trigger finger was twitching against the table cloth.  Hell, Trowa was probably arranging for my early retirement at a mental ward.

Mariemeia, on the other hand, looked delighted with the progress she’d made with me.  She was two steps further along on her (or her controller’s) plan to wage a second war: she’d gotten a former Gundam pilot to admit that the colonies still needed defending _and_ propose something other than bureaucratic negotiation as a solution.

Too bad it looked like I’d just signed my own death warrant.

Before the fireworks could start, a soft beep from the comm. unit sounded.  In the tense silence, it was more like a freakin’ gunshot than an electronic chime, but I refused to acknowledge the looks I was getting from the others.  I blithely splashed around in my cold soup, still leaning nonchalantly against Trowa’s chair.

One of the guards picked up the handset and took the call.  An indistinct but affirmative-sounding murmur later and he was striding forward on a direct course to the head of the table and the little warmonger who sat there.

“Excuse me, Miss Mariemeia,” the officer politely began.  “Your presence is requested in the communications room.  You have an incoming call from Earth.”

“Thank you.”  She turned back to us and smiled apologetically.  “Please excuse me, gentlemen.  I have to answer this call.  It might be about the foreign minister.”  She returned her napkin to the table and the officer pulled out her chair for her as she stood.  “Enjoy your meal.  Someone will escort you back to your rooms when you’re finished.”

I cockily waved goodbye and watched her leave.  As soon as the door slid shut behind her, however, remaining guard or no remaining guard (not to mention the lingering server who was waiting for us to finish our soup course), Wufei just freakin’ _exploded._

“What.  Are you _thinking?”_

Heero just glared at me, doing his damnedest to bore a hole through my skull with his gaze.

On my thigh, Trowa’s fingers were now tapping in a thoughtful gesture as he worked through the implications of what I’d both said and tacitly agreed to consider.

“Relax, guys!” I chirped.  “It’s not as if they’re asking us to, I dunno, lead a frickin’ army or—”

“—hand over our Gundams,” Trowa smoothly and skillfully inserted.  I had to mash my lips together to keep myself from kissing him right then and there in thanks for backing me, even if it was out of blind faith.  Still, Tro was a damn smart guy.  He knew me well enough to probably guess where this was going.

“Exactly!” I continued.  “I mean, Howard and Hilde are working with them.”

“As well as Relena.”

 _Trowa, you are my hero,_ I didn’t say, but I was thinking it.  Oh, how I was thinking it.

“I haven’t agreed to anything,” I reminded them.  “And neither have any of you.”

“Precisely,” Wufei said, tossing his napkin on the table and standing.  “Which is why we ought to thank our _hostess_ and return to Earth.”

“Aw, man.  Don’t be like that,” I cajoled.

Yet again, Trowa backed my play.  “Are you so ready to go back to data entry?” he challenged in a deceptively neutral tone.

“People ain’t afraid of us out here,” I pointed out.  Turning to Quatre, I pointed out the obvious, “We have a second chance to really make a difference for the colonies.  I mean, hell, they’ll find people to replace us at WEI.”  A monkey could do my damn job just as well.  “But what if we’re needed out here?  What if the colonies need _us,_ not some random office drones.”

A flicker of speculative interest, a spark of curiosity crossed Quatre’s face.

Heero, however, had apparently heard enough.  Without a word, he stood and stormed from the room.  Wufei, after flashing a glare at me, followed after him.

I wasn’t worried, though.  Trowa and I had already outlined the mission objectives of which there were four points that had to be confirmed: first, whether or not there actually _was_ an army here; second, if they somehow had access to any Gundams or were stockpiling arms and mobile suits; third, determine what Howard and Hilde’s status were; and fourth, check on Relena.  I wondered if the guard or server (or whoever might be listening in or watching us) had picked up on that.  Even if they had, it wasn’t gonna stop us.  We five were the masters of the “self-guided tour” and we’d be seeing to that separately once things settled down for the night-cycle.

But, we still had the rest of this damn dinner to get through.

“So,” I drawled, watching as my nearly-empty bowl of soup was taken away and a plate of roast chicken took its place, “was Howard the first guy through your door, too?”

Quatre nodded, a slightly embarrassed smile tugging at his mouth.  “Yes.  And a good thing, too.  I was still in my pajamas.”

“Winner!” I scolded him.  “Sleeping in on a work day?”

“My alarm didn’t go off.”

It was a lame excuse and we all knew it.

“What did he say to convince you to come?” Trowa asked next as I sampled the main course.

With slight frown, Quatre told us, “He said the world needed the Gundam pilots again and both you and Duo were already outbound.”

“Huh,” I remarked.  It sounded like he’d told us only what he thought we needed to hear in order to get us to agree to the extraction; there was no way in hell Quatre wouldn’t have come after us after hearing a line like that from someone he could trust.  So, if Howard had fed Q a line of bull, then there was hope that Deathscythe was still secure right where Howard and I had hidden it.  I felt the knots in my gut unwind and my organs settle down to where they ought to be.

“Did you ride out with Heero and Wufei?” I asked.

Quatre nodded and I could only imagine the joy that flight must have been.

“With how many goons?” I pressed.  Beside me, Trowa snorted.

“There were ten that I saw,” Quatre replied, his lips twitching with humor.

 _“Ten?”_ I squawked.  “Damn.”  I turned toward Trowa and observed, “We were shortchanged, babe.”

“I know.”

“Q and the others got three _and a third_ goons per pilot.”

“I know.”

“We just got three apiece,” I muttered and topped off the petulant tone with a juvenile pout.

Trowa gave me a glittering green sidelong glance.  “I know.”

“You know a lot, huh?” I teased.

The smile he gave me in response to that was disturbingly sly and suggestive.  I found myself mesmerized by it and the temptations I sensed behind it.

Quatre cleared his throat and I almost jumped outta my damn skin.  Right.  Trowa and I weren’t alone at the moment.  Damn.

“Yeah, Win-meister?” I coughed out.

“Who got you and Trowa out?” he asked idly, but the little smile he was trying to hide behind a forkful of chicken totally gave him away.

“Howard got us outta WEI.  Hilde met us at the spaceport hangar.  She wouldn’t let me pilot, though,” I groused.

“She’s a fair pilot,” Trowa observed blandly.

“Hm, yeah.  True,” I reluctantly agreed.  “She might even have her commercial pilot’s license an’ everything by now.”  It occurred to me than that I’d been more or less standing still for the last four years.  The world had gone on turning while I’d clicked my way through emails begging for Winner money.  Damn.  What a freakin’ waste.

“How was Howard’s piloting?” Trowa asked and Quatre groaned expressively.

I snickered.  “Yeah.  He’s better at the helm of a ship.”

“I certainly hope so,” Quatre grumbled and I cackled with glee.

“Have you heard from him since you disembarked?” Trowa pressed.

Quatre shook his head.

I sighed.  “I haven’t heard a peep from him, either,” I confessed.  Or Hilde, for that matter, but I wasn’t sure if I should be contacting her.  “I’ll see what I can do about that after dinner.”

And that’s exactly what I did a mere thirty minutes later.  The response I got from the operator was not what I’d hoped for, although I couldn’t say I was surprised.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Maxwell, but he’s unavailable.  Would you like me to pass on a message?”

I pretended to think about it for a moment.  “Hm… nah.  It can wait,” I made myself say in an unconcerned tone.  “I’ll try him again later.”

When I hung up the handset, though, I was fighting the urge to frown.  Trowa strolled up behind me and put a hand on my hip.  I took a half step back and leaned a bit against his chest.  As he nuzzled my hair, I let out a long breath and felt myself relax.  It’d do me no good to tense up now, not when Trowa and I would be reconnoitering this place in a few hours.

“Your eyes are bloodshot,” Trowa observed.

I grunted in agreement.  Yeah, they freakin’ _felt_ bloodshot.

“Let’s get some sleep.”

“It’s only seven-thirty,” I complained.

Trowa chuckled.  “I think I can come up with a way to tire you out.”

“Oh my God,” I moaned, disbelieving.  “You are _insatiable.”_   This I said as I turned to confront him.

He leaned forward and kissed me gently but at great length and in spine-tingling depth.  “Yes,” he agreed.  “I am.”

But we didn’t end up naked and sweaty again.  After brushing my teeth, I really _was_ exhausted.  It’s embarrassing as hell but true: I was out like a light even before Trowa finished up in the bathroom and slid into bed.  I woke up in his arms to the sound of his voice whispering my name.

I knew we had to get up.  I could sense it was late – when I blinked open my eyes, I confirmed that the pattern of dim lights blinking through the windows was typical for mid night-cycle – but I put off acknowledging it.  I stretched languidly and snuggled a bit further into Trowa’s embrace.  I pressed my nose to his neck and inhaled as my hands squirmed around his waist.

“This is your wakeup call,” he continued laughingly into my ear.

“You’ve got the wrong room.”

“Oh, is there some other long-haired, Deathscythe pilot on this colony?”

“Har har.  You make me laugh.”

“Up an’ at’em, soldier,” he crooned, “or else.”

“Or else what, Sargent?” I grumped, closing my eyes again.

He nipped my earlobe.  “I start licking.”

Whoo-K!  “I’m up!” I announced, giggling a bit maniacally at the double entrendre.  It was certainly true _both_ ways now that I had that lovely image of Trowa’s tongue lapping at my skin to torment me.  But, alas, Trowa had achieved his objective: I was well and truly awake now.  Damnitall.  I glared at him over my shoulder.  “You.  Are evil,” I informed him, using my best Wufei Tone.

Sprawled out on the rumpled bed sheets, Trowa grinned that sly little smile of his up at me.  Somehow he made it look both unabashed and bashful.  “I learned from the best.”

Grumbling, I pushed myself off of the mattress and located my pile of discarded clothes in the dark.  By the faint light of the slumbering colony outside, I could see Trowa doing likewise on the opposite side of the bed.  Even in this low light, his pale jeans stood out like freakin’ neon signs, but I didn’t suggest that he see what kind of clothes we had hanging in our closet that might fit him.  For all we knew, those “thoughtfully” provided items might be tagged.  It was easy enough to plant a tracking chip in a button.

Luckily, my clothes were considerably darker than his.  There wasn’t anything I could do about the shiny, metal zippers on my jacket, but it’d still be smarter for me to lead while Trowa took advantage of my shadow and brought up the rear.

Buttons done up, zippers zipped, and bootlaces tied, we were as ready as we were ever gonna be.  It was now or never.  Come tomorrow, I’d have to get more insistent about seeing Howard.  I’d been complacent today because our mysterious host (or hosts) hadn’t _done_ anything flagrantly hostile.  When they denied me access to one of my known allies (and I was sure they would – it seemed to me there was a lot Howard could tell me about this place and these people that they probably wouldn’t want me to know) that’d be the sort of thing I just couldn’t afford to let go.  I’d have to get _serious._   And then they’d have no choice but to toss my ass in a windowless cell with all the comforts of monastic seclusion.

Speaking of which…

I stepped around the end of the bed and reached for Trowa.  He grunted softly as I tugged him close for a long, thorough kiss.  God, in the days to come, if the absolute-worst case scenario became reality, I wanted to have the imprint of his taste, his scent, his heat to draw upon, to give me strength should Shinigami falter, to remind me why I was fighting just in case the concept of peace proved to be too abstract or impossible to believe in.  Trowa would be my new faith if that happened, and I embraced him fully.

When I reluctantly pulled back, Trowa refused to give me that bit of space.  He followed me, brushing my lips with his as he confessed, “Sometimes you scare me.”

My heart tripped and stumbled, hearing that.  “I thought you were fearless,” I joked thickly.

“So did I.”

Well… damn.  I guess I _was_ being maudlin enough to freak anybody out.  Even a war-hardened soldier like Trowa.

I pressed a quick, confident kiss to his lips and drew my fingers along the braided length of his necklace.  He never took the damn thing off.  Well, not that I’d noticed.  I was thankful and humbled by that.  I brushed the onyx pendant and then made myself move away.  I kinda wanted to say something to him, but I just couldn’t think of anything else that _needed_ to be said.  And besides, we had a job to do.

I headed for the door, Trowa matching my every step.  Even inside our suite, we kept to the shadows, moving silently with neither haste nor hesitation.  We each took up position on either side of the main door.  This was going to be the trickiest part.  If the door opened – and I half-expected it wouldn’t at this time of night; just because it had opened readily earlier in the day didn’t mean we weren’t under an enforced curfew or some damn thing – Trowa and I would be at a major disadvantage.  The hallway beyond would be _blindingly_ bright compared to our rooms.  And, oh yeah, there’d probably be guards stationed outside.  Fighting hand-to-hand combat when light was stabbing your brain and making your eyes more or less useless was a serious pain in the ass.  Y’know, FYI.

But what choice did we have?  On the off chance that whoever was watching us in our room wasn’t paying too close attention, we had to keep the lights off as long as possible.  Having the security monitor flare with light would definitely distract a guy from his idle game of solitaire.  So, no lights.  No prep.  If the door opened, we were _out,_ the enemy was _down,_ and we were frickin’ _movin’ our asses._

I drew in a deep breath, held it, let it out, and reached for the door release.  I looked at Trowa, waited until I saw the indistinct shadow that was his head nod once, and then I pressed the button.

My first surprise came as the door actually slid open.  The expected bright light spilled across the threshold, searing across my vision.  My second surprise occurred when I blindly spun through the doorway and into the hallway.

There was nobody there.

I glanced over my shoulder in time to see Trowa make the same discovery.

There were no guards whatsoever in the utterly and completely deserted corridor.

Shit.

I know: you’d think this was a good thing.  It wasn’t.  Not really.  There was no way they could be _this_ freakin’ confident of our cooperation to just _let us loose_ inside their installation so, either we were confined in an empty, useless building and nowhere near their base of operations, or we _were_ in the heart of their HQ and they _wanted_ us to scope the place out.  And, in my experience, scoping never revealed many good surprises.

Given our two options, I was betting on number two.  It was an interesting way to get our reactions to their setup.  I was wondering _which_ reaction they were expecting, though.

I gritted my teeth and swallowed back all the colorful swear words that rose to the occasion.  This was no time for airing out my vocabulary; we had a secret military base to reconnoiter.

I signaled our direction to Trowa and he fell into step behind me as I glided down the neo-steel-lined hallway.  Colony layouts were roughly similar from one place to another thanks to the “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” school of thought, so I could make an educated guess as to where we were in relation to the shuttle bay and other useful features like ductwork and access tunnels.  I wasn’t sure how much experience Trowa had with that kind of infiltration, but I was guessing it wasn’t much, not if he’d chosen to _interview_ his way into OZ rather than squirm in.

But maybe I was being unfair.  Maybe he knew colony layouts like he knew a Beretta.  I still figured I had him beat.  Hell, I’d spent years of my childhood running and hiding out in places most colony maintenance workers didn’t even know existed.

So, the first order of business was to locate the umbilical that connected this building to the main air supply.   For a structure this size, there’d have to be several, and they’d have to be large enough for repair workers to move around in.  I blazed a tense but silent trail toward the nearest emergency stairwell.  At the very next intersection, I looked to my left and there it was.  Glowing neon sign an’ all.  Bingo.

With a pinch of my fingers, I shorted out the sensors on the door and we slid inside.  I didn’t kid myself thinking we had all damn day.  A computer somewhere had probably just started beeping, alerting somebody to the fact that an emergency door security system was off-line.  Did I dare hope the guy in charge of that was taking his time reading the colony news in the john?  No.  No, I didn’t.

I hurried up to the mid-floor landing where an inconspicuous door stood flush with the wall.  The access panel had been capped with a metal case, so first that had to come off and then the keypad had to be dealt with.  A few crossed wires later and the door slid open.  I nodded for Trowa to go first while I stuffed everything back together and snapped the cover back on.

Once I was through, the door slid shut and I paused beside Trowa on the platform overlooking the twisting labyrinth of tunnels, ducts, and pipes.

“Next stop, fifth floor, women’s cardigans, pink umbrellas, and fuzzy house slippers,” I quipped brightly.

Trowa raised a brow at me.  With a wry smile, I motioned to a long shaft which ran all the way down into the abyss below us.  “What?  Would you prefer the bargain basement?”

He didn’t answer verbally – he just kinda gave me a little look and I could hear the faint, slightly amused echo of “oink oink” in it – but that was OK; he didn’t complain and that’s what made me grin in earnest.  It was nice being on a mission with someone who didn’t mind when I started rattling on like a mental patient.

Still, just because Trowa was tolerant of my, er, eccentricities, that didn’t mean we could afford to hang out on this little service balcony and shoot the breeze indefinitely.  “You ever been in the guts of a colony before?” I asked him.

“Once.  For repairs,” he replied.

Just to be on the safe side, I pointed out all the stuff he shouldn’t touch.  No matter what.  “Electric conduits,” I narrated, pointing as I moved along the balcony.  “Boiler exhaust vents.  Waste chute.  Any questions?”

“No.”

“OK.  Now comes the fun part.”  Fun, indeed, for a former thief and a retired acrobat.  I swung a leg over the balcony railing and eyeballed the distance to the access ladder which ran along the wall of the abyss.  And “abyss” really was the word for it.  Some of these maintenance areas encircled the whole damn colony.  If you slipped and fell, you’d make one helluva splat when the colony spin finally led you to a flat surface.

Facing off with my target, I wasn’t at all surprised when I felt Trowa’s hand on my arm, anchoring me as I sized up the considerable leap.  Actual maintenance workers would be suited up for this with climbing gear.  Trowa and I just had our amazing selves and each other.

“Three… two… one…” I counted down and on my mark, he pushed and I jumped.  I grabbed for the rungs and hooked my boot tread onto the footholds.  Heh.  Distance acquired.  Sweet.  I reached back for Trowa and, although he probably didn’t need any help, he took my hand so I could guide him to a safe perch.

“We’re lookin’ for a big-ass air duct,” I told him as I started descending the ladder.  “At least a meter and a half across.  Since cargo holds and hangars are pretty much the only rooms that much air has to get cycled through, if they’ve got an army in this tin can…”

“We’ll find their mobile suits and weapons there.”

“Exactly.”

Knowing what you were looking for and actually finding it were two totally unrelated mission items.  I’d learned this a long time ago, so I took nothing for granted as we started our search.  A couple of levels down, I spied an access tunnel that looked promising and it took a fair bit of climbing and a dicey moment balanced over the yawning maw of the colony on a water line pipe to get over there and check it out.  Of course Trowa didn’t have any trouble whatsoever.  Well, other than watching me windmill my arms a couple of times when a burst of air blasted me and broke my concentration.  After that, he was practically stepping on me, he stuck so close.

“Relax!” I hissed on a chuckle as I swung into the tunnel we were heading for.  “I wasn’t actually gonna—”

Trowa squirmed in beside me and pressed a palm over my mouth.  I blinked at him over the edge of his hand and watched as he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, took a deep breath, and then sighed it out.  “Dammit, Duo,” he mouthed.

When his eyes opened again, I wiggled my brows at him and contemplated licking his palm.  He glared a bit at me before slouching against the metal at his back.  “You’ll give me grey hairs,” he predicted in a defeated tone.

I reached up, pulled his hand away from my mouth, and impulsively pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist.  “Well, babe, I guess that’s why God invented hair dye.”

Trowa actually snorted.  “God?”

“Everything is full of gods,” I quoted.  I couldn’t think of who’d said that originally, but I knew it was ancient.  “Therefore, everything had to be _made_ by one.”

“Your logic is disturbing,” he mumbled.

I couldn’t argue with that.

“But not as disturbing as your lack of balance.  Take my hand next time.”

And pull him down with me if I were to fall?  Yeah, right.

He must have seen the refusal in my expression despite the gloom of the tunnel because he grabbed my shoulder with one hand and reached inside his turtleneck collar with the other.  I glanced down as the onyx pendant I’d given him was pulled out, the leather necklace caught around his thumb.  That’s all he said.  And, honestly, that’s all he needed to say.

I huffed out a breath.  “Holdin’ onto your hand will wreck my balance,” I stubbornly insisted.

“How would you know?” he fought back, letting the pendant drop to his chest.  His tone wasn’t cruel, but it cut through my bullshit like a Beam Scythe.

He was right; I’d never reached out like that to anyone before.  Oh, I’d accepted help when I’d been down and out, but to take the initiative and _ask?_   No, that wasn’t my style.  Well, not until recently.  I’d asked Trowa for his help when I’d asked him to marry me.  Even then, it wasn’t an equal partnership, and that’s what he wanted.  That’s what he was asking for.

He wanted my trust – not to pick me up and dust me off after I’d fallen but to keep me upright, to prevent whatever tumbles lurked in my future before they actually happened.

It was a helluva realization to be having in the guts of a colony that might become our new prison before too long.  We didn’t have time for this, but there was no gettin’ outta this moment, so I _made_ time for it.

“It’s only fair,” Trowa pressed, daring me to abandon my double standard.

There were so many thoughts, both tangent _and_ directly related to this, bouncing around inside my skull—

_Trowa watches my back and I watch his!_

—that I couldn’t sort through them all—

 _It’s **my** mission, dammit!_  

—but I knew this kind of baggage was gonna be a hindrance rather than a help—

_We’re both playing roles, here!_

—and Trowa was counting on me.  Hell, _all_ the guys were counting on me—

_But there’s no way I can do this by myself!_

—and this was just… just… just…!

“Duo,” Trowa whispered, crowding me and pressing his forehead against mine.  “Darling,” I imagined he said.  “I can’t watch you fall.”

Well.  How could I fight that?  I couldn’t.  What’s more, I didn’t really want to.  I reached for his hand and hooked my thumb around his in an unbreakable climber’s grasp.  My mouth felt dry, my tongue large and sticky, my throat too narrow for words, but I forced myself to croak, “Then help me stand.”

He let out a long breath and, smiling softly, told me, “We’ll stand together.”

That sounded pretty cool.  “OK,” I said.

“Hmm,” he answered and I grinned.  Trowa and his little non-comment hums.

“C’mon, baby,” I coaxed, squeezing his hand.  “We got a weapons cache to uncover and a plot to foil.”

The first turned out to be not so difficult.  About an hour later, Trowa and I found ourselves gazing out at a massive hanger _packed_ – wall-to-wall – with some type of mobile suit.  We had to head back into the ductwork maze in order to circle around for a better view.  When we did…

“Shit,” I hissed.  “Mobile dolls.”

“Yes,” Trowa agreed grimly.

Dozens – just over a hundred, by the look of it – of the cockpit-less mobile suits stood at the ready, waiting for the wireless uplink that would awaken them and their hellish potential.  I could only wonder and dread if Mariemeia’s handler(s) had gotten ahold of the version of the system that the White Fang had used or if they’d added bells and whistles of their own.

Right.  Threat assessment complete.  Oh-Shit! level: high.

“They don’t need an army if they’ve got all this,” I pointed out.

“But egomaniacs usually insist on having one, anyway,” Trowa retorted, making the same assumption that I had about the sort of person we were dealing with here.

“Riiiight.  Because guns and mobile suits don’t applaud on cue.”  That cynical observation won a soft snort from my mission partner as we retreated down the duct and returned to our search.

After two turns, I heard the faint echo of a man speaking in the distance.  He sounded fairly self-important droning on as he was.  There was either a microphone involved, a captive audience, or this was a dress rehearsal for a victory speech.  (And if the latter was the case, then he was in the process of jinxing himself.  Hell, everybody knows that if you start crowing before you’ve won, you’re gonna get your ass kicked but _good.)_

“Could it be this easy?” I hissed over my shoulder at Trowa.

“Apparently,” he murmured into my ear as we crept close enough to glimpse the room beyond the vent grate.  He rested his chin on my shoulder as we both tallied up the rows upon rows of khaki-uniformed soldiers standing at attention and in awe of what appeared to be a lone man pontificating upon a stage against the far wall.

“… the people of Earth will be made to understand their _true_ position in the grand scheme of…!”

Well, hell.  Mobile suits: check.  Army: check.  Warmongering egomaniac: check.  Yippee fuckin’ skippy.

 _Well, that’s a wrap,_ I almost said.  I would have, too, if I hadn’t spotted a very familiar set of tense shoulders and a tuft of shaggy, brown hair peeking out from under an X18999 soldier’s cap.

“Damn,” I hissed, pointing.  Trowa leaned against my shoulder, peering in the direction I’d indicated.  I knew the moment he ID’ed Heero because he chuckled and gave my other shoulder a squeeze.

“Looks like he’ll be able to fill us in on the specifics.”

“No kidding.”  Damn, he’d just waltzed into the midst of a fuckin’ army like the war was yesterday.  The guy was all mission, no doubt about it.  Shaking my head in baffled admiration for Heero’s sheer gumption, I almost missed the motion up on the stage.  Almost, but not quite.  Someone else was up there, standing behind the past-middle-age scary guy in the military dress uniform, someone small and slight, someone with short, wavy red hair…

“Shit,” I croaked, noticing Mariemeia posing beside the grandstanding guru.  She was just as luminous as she had been before but the green dress was gone.  In its place she was wearing a feminine version of the khaki army uniform.  Well, damn.  Damn damn damn.

My mind was whizzing a hundred kilometers per second with the implications, with plans and contingencies, so when Trowa tugged on my arm, I almost jumped right outta my skin.

“Do your plotting elsewhere,” he advised.  “The speech is winding down.”

“Er, right,” I agreed, finally noticing the We-are-gonna-kick-ass! tone that often concluded this kind of pep rallies.  “Let’s get Heero outta there and meet up with the others.”

We had just enough time to wiggle and scramble our way through the ducts toward a second set of emergency stairs.  I took care of the door sensors, cracked it open, crouched down and we both watched for our quarry to come into view.  We didn’t have to wait long.  After about five minutes, I spotted three soldiers marching self-importantly off on some assignment or other and Heero was trailing unobtrusively behind them.  The guys on a mission stomped past.  I signaled to Trowa to edge the door open a bit more.  I checked the hall and then, with a nod from me, we struck.

As Heero moved by us, Trowa opened the door, I grabbed Heero’s arm, and then I was being pancaked against the nearest flat surface.

“Back off,” Trowa growled at my hostage-turned-attacker as I gritted my teeth and focused on not passing the hell out.

Heero blinked and – noticing just _who_ he was choking with his forearm – lowered his guard with a grunt of acknowledgement.

“You gotta head back out there?” I whisper-wheezed.  For all I knew, we’d just interrupted his task of finding out what those three guys were up to.

He shook his head.  “Quatre’s on it.”

“Right,” I replied, not surprised in the least that he and the others had managed to pull together a coordinated mission of their own.  “Rendezvous?”

He nodded.  “Follow me.”

And it was just like old times.  The thought made me grin wryly.  Yeah, this was Heero “I’m In Charge” Yuy.  Hell, the guy wouldn’t know what to do with a partner if he had one.  Well… I guess that’s not true.  He’d dictate instructions and then trust him not to fuck up.  Trowa, on the other hand, he wanted to participate in the ongoing task of nobody fucking up.  If you get what I mean.

It made me twitchy to leave the comforting anonymity of the maintenance tunnels, but Heero wasn’t the type to take detours unless they were absolutely necessary.  Biting back a sigh, Trowa and I fell into step with him as he quickly took us up a level and down a hall that I suspected was the one outside the dining room.  Heero pivoted and disappeared through a seemingly random door which turned out to be the entrance to a conference room.  The lights were already on and Wufei was sitting at the long table, scowling at the dark video phone screen in front of him.

No one said anything.  There was no point yet as Quatre was still finishing up his end of things.  I plunked my ass down in a chair with a sigh and started swiveling back and forth at a speed that was bound to make Wufei blow a gasket.  I grinned as I imagined it.  Trowa ruined my fun by nudging my knees deliberately as he took the seat next to mine.  The result was our legs were almost entwined so I couldn’t spin around aimlessly until Wufei’s jaw clenched and the vein in his forehead pulsed.  But I was still restless, so I bounced my knee up and down, jarring Trowa’s leg.  He _had_ to notice it, but it didn’t even phase him.  He just placed his hand on the back of my chair and, out of sight of Wufei and Heero, rubbed random patterns against my back and shoulder.  Surprisingly, it helped.

I wasn’t nearly as relieved as I expected to be when Quatre slid through the door.  He was also dressed in one of the army uniforms.  It clashed with his coloring, though.

“Inventory of threats first,” Heero ordered and I nudged Trowa who went ahead and described the cache of mobile dolls we’d found.

“And they have an army,” I added for the sake of summing up.  “How many, Heero?”

“Approximately five hundred.”

And if they managed to get their hands on as many military-grade mobile suits, they’d be a serious problem.

“There’s more,” Quatre told us.  “It looks like they have Zero.”

I let my head fall back until I was staring up at the ceiling.  On my shoulder, Trowa’s hand stilled and clutched tightly.  “Well, fuck,” I observed.

 _“Is_ it Zero?” Heero pressed.

Quatre sighed.  “The room… the setup and system hardware are similar.  Obviously, I couldn’t activate it to check the system itself.”

“Why did that old Sweeper bring us here?” Wufei growled, clearly pissed off to the Nth degree that he was right smack dab in the middle of a brewing rebellion and threat to the peace.

“Because we’re needed,” I replied flatly and earned a moment of contemplative silence.  Once everyone tested my logic and came to the same conclusion themselves, I asked, “Any news on Howard and Hilde?”

“I saw Hilde among the ranks of the soldiers.  She’s sworn allegiance to Mariemeia,” Heero told me but not for one minute did I believe it.  Hilde was on the inside where she might actually be able to help us out.  How she’d gotten there, though , I couldn’t begin to guess.

Wufei told me, “Howard is being held upstairs, third level, in the detention cells.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and swore.  Hell, maybe Hilde’d given _him_ up in order to earn her place amongst the uniformed masses.

“Near the laboratory,” Wufei continued.

“The fuck!” I coughed.  _“What_ laboratory?”

He glared at me.  Trowa’s hand squeezed my shoulder a second time.  “If I _may,_ I’ll tell you what I found out about it.”

I thought thoughts of engraved invitations and silver platters but forced myself to keep my mouth shut.

“The lab is reminiscent of our training facilities.  They may be developing a pilot training program.”

“Did anyone find any pilotable suits?” I checked.

No one had.  Well, OK.  There was that tiny ray of hope, at least.  Of course, I was pretty sure they’d find a way to get their hands on suits for their troops which may or may not need training to pilot them.  Maybe their army had been recruited from war veterans exclusively, in which case, all they’d need is the actual mobile suits and ammo and they’d be ready to divide and conquer.

“There’s something else,” Heero said, breaking the uneasy quiet.  “I discovered a recent transmission in their communications history.  They’ve sent a force to Earth and have taken over the foreign minister’s offices in Brussels.”

“Relena?” Quatre asked before I could screech the same thing.

“Hostage,” Heero reported grimly.

“What are their demands?” Trowa inquired in a very calm, business-like tone.

“Unknown.  The Preventers are attempting to make contact.”

“Meanwhile, they’ve got us up here with their damn army…” I mused.  And it was gonna look like all of us were in on their plot, too.  Damn these bastards.  If I didn’t get things turned around, we weren’t gonna come outta this smelling like roses.  We’d come outta this looking like we’d taken over the whole damn operation and were about to rain wrath down upon the innocent people of Earth.

Some days, I really do hate my life.

“OK, look, guys.  Just chill.  Lemme see what I can do.”

Quatre blinked at me.  “Duo, what makes you think you can negotiate with these people?  They have Howard locked up!”

“And I’m sure they want something from _me_ in exchange for his safety,” I replied confidently but with a dark frown.

“Deathscythe,” Heero summed up.

I nodded.  “Bingo.”

“No,” Trowa whispered, but I don’t think the others heard him.  He knew then what I was prepared to do, what I’d end up asking _him_ to do.  Dammit, I had _not_ wanted it to come to this, but there was no avoiding it now.  I had to hope that in giving up my Gundam, these bastards would be happy enough with that.  I had to hope they wouldn’t press the others for the same.  Hell, if we were very lucky, they’d just lock us up to keep us the hell outta their way _and_ provide a handy herd of scapegoats if things went south.

Trowa knew where this was going and I could tell he was somewhat horrified.  I wanted to answer his breathed denial.  I wanted to tell him I’d known the risks back on that building roof, back when I’d asked him to marry me.  I’d always known it might come to this.  I supposed I could apologize for it, but being sorry wasn’t gonna change a damn thing.

It was Quatre who pushed back the blanketing silence, but he wisely contained his remarks to: “I don’t like this.”

“Join the club,” Wufei muttered.

“Hey, a little faith here, guys,” I chimed in with a cocky grin.  “I mean, yeah, sure, those people are braced for war, but it’s not gonna come to that.”

“So we’re staying,” Heero decided and, until that moment, I hadn’t realized anyone might actually be considering a strategic retreat.

“The colonies need us,” I agreed.

“Indeed they do,” a new voice – a voice I recognized – said from the comm. unit speaker on the wall.  We all stood up as the door slid open and there stood Mariemeia in her kid-sized uniform, and behind her was the talkative general from the pep rally, and behind _him_ looked like a cool dozen armed soldiers crowding the hall.  “As do we,” she continued.  “Allow me to introduce General Dekim Barton.”

Beside me, Trowa stiffened.

The general noticed the motion and gave Trowa a creepy smile.  I did not like that smile.  Not one bit.  Shinigami grinned so hard his teeth looked more like fangs as he eyed up his prey.

“Yes,” the general drawled, “I thought you might recognize my name.  I certainly recognize _yours.”_

There was a wealth of history there, I could tell.  For the first time in my life, I _really_ wanted to sit through a lesson.  I didn’t think I’d be given the chance, though.

“And while we’re on the subject of introductions,” Dekim Barton continued, gesturing to the girl at his side.  “May I present Mariemeia Khushrenada, daughter of the late Treize Khushrenada and future queen of the Earth and colonies.”

She curtsied politely.

Damn. I could not freakin’ believe it.

“What do you want from us?” Heero demanded flatly.

“The same thing you want,” she replied sweetly, looking directly at me.  “To help the colonies.”

I felt Trowa’s hand fist beneath my leather jacket, against the small of my back.  Yeah, it was that kind of moment, a defining moment, an everything-is-about-to-go-bugfuck moment.

I grinned.  Widely.  “Yeah?” I mused and dared to rock back on my heels, letting Trowa know I was relying on him to catch me because I was about to take one helluva leap.  “Looks like we’ve got somethin’ to talk about, then.”

Trowa’s hand flattened.  His palm rubbed against me in reply.  Yeah, he had my back. 

“Yes, we do!” Mariemeia agreed, and then she giggled.

Holy hell.  Did it make me a bad person if I thought this was gonna be fun?

Yeah.  I kinda thought so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> X18999 is the actual name of the colony featured in Endless Waltz.
> 
> You may (or not) remember that Wufei joined Dekim Barton’s forces in Endless Waltz. As you can see in this story, Wufei isn’t all that interested in being a soldier in Mariemeia’s army this time around. I guess he’s mellowed over the past 4 years… or something.
> 
> Thales, a philosopher (arguably one of the first classic philosophers) of ancient Greece, is credited as saying, “Everything is full of gods.” For more about the ancient philosophers, I highly recommend “From the Presocratics to the Present: a Personal Odyssey” by David Kolak. He really explains where the ancients were coming from so their genius can be properly appreciated. (And yes, I am a former philosophy major.) 
> 
> Pet names and endearments can start out as a joke and then evolve into something more (they certainly did in my case, so beware). In this chapter, Trowa calls Duo “darling” (although Duo doesn’t believe his own ears, the dunce) and this comes from Chapter 6 in which Trowa (possibly jokingly) called him “darling Duo” at lunch. Yup, it was all downhill from there. Duo has been officially Endeared. Heh.
> 
> Finally, I can’t believe I haven’t mentioned this yet (looking back over my notes, it’s clear I haven’t) but my inspiration for Trowa’s character comes from two main sources: first, Reily’s Trowa in “Arcanum” (a discontinued WIP, originally posted under the username Retep) and, second, Sunhawk’s Trowa in “Rain” and also in both “Guidance” and “Directions”. I loved those Trowas so much I had to get one for my very own.


	10. A Game of This and That

# Chapter 10: A Game of This and That

_There’s nothing in your head or pocket, throat or wallet that could change just how this goes…_

 

“Mr. Maxwell…”

“Call me Duo,” I generously offered as I settled into the chair at the table in what was clearly an interrogation room.  Without Trowa there to distract me, I immediately began my little swivel routine.  I had no reason to _not_ be relaxed.  I hadn’t said or done anything so far to indicate that I wouldn’t be happily cooperative once we got a few details straightened out.  Details like showing Howard better hospitality and ordering Dekim “Creepy Guy” Barton to stay the hell away from my husband.

But what about that reconnoitering business, you ask?  Well, that was to be expected.  If I _hadn’t_ taken steps to check the place out for myself, that would have been very suspicious.  Gundam pilots weren’t known for taking things at face value.  Mariemeia’s dad had taught us that.

Speaking of which… damn.  I was looking at Treize Khushrenada’s daughter.  She was twice as charismatic as the OZ-man, himself.  I could definitely see why Dekim Barton was so happy to thrust her into the limelight while he fiddled and finagled behind her back.  I wondered how aware she was of the fact that he was using her and planned to _continue_ using her as a shield while he soaked up power like a freakin’ sponge.

Hmm, yes.  There was a potential weakness there if I could figure out just how to reach her.  If Dekim lost his lovely and charming future-queen, the soldiers might be less inclined to follow his orders.  From what I’d seen, they more or less doted on Mariemeia; they hung on her every word.  Of course, Dekim had to be aware of this weak link and had probably brain washed the poor kid into believing some kind of destiny or fate crapola.  Yes, something to ponder.

The object of my thoughts dimpled a smile at me in delight.  “Duo.”

Dekim Barton charged into the budding conversation, probably feeling a little territorial since I was charming his meal ticket.  “What are you prepared to do to help the colonies?” he demanded.

“That all depends,” I retorted, tucking my hands behind my head and slouching comfortably, one foot propped up on the opposite knee.  Oh, yeah.  I was settling in.  The longer these negotiations took, the better.  “What are you prepared to do to help _me?”_

“As mercenary as your husband?” the man spat.  Clearly, he had some kind of ax to grind with Trowa.  I wasn’t all that keen to let him do that, especially since I wasn’t sure if I could be there to have Trowa’s back.  I wondered what I could do about running interference without actually, y’know, physically interfering since that was kinda impossible what with me being shoved into – oh, excuse me, _escorted_ to – a separate “meeting room”.  I tried not to remember Trowa’s reaction to Dekim commanding me out of that conference room for “a word in private.”  Damn, but I’d thought he was gonna take on the bastard with his bare hands.

I’d been a bit too busy filling in the blanks of Trowa’s reaction to make a move to stop him from lunging.  Thank God Wufei had been standing right there and had clamped a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, no problem!” I’d chirped as if being ordered around like a damn private in his freakin’ army was no biggie

“Trust nothing he says,” Trowa had growled very softly. 

I’d met his narrowed eyes, nodded, and assured him in a quiet but audible tone, “I’ll see ya later, babe.”  And then I sauntered over to the general and my imminent interrogation.  Yeah, yeah; I know he’d said he only wanted “a word in private” but, hell.  Did these guys think I was born yesterday?

“Me?  Mercenary?” I mused playfully.  “Nah, I wouldn’t go that far.”  After all, this wasn’t about money for me.  I was playing for a second chance, for street cred with the world, for personal liberty and the freedom for all five of us to live our own damn lives however we wanted; Dekim was playing for the shallow dream of an unopposed dictatorship.  Or so my instincts told me.  “But I do have some questions, of course.”  And some conditions, but we’d get into those _after_ the general laid his cards on the table.

“Of course,” he bit out disagreeably.

I tilted my head to the side.  “Y’know, we’re not gonna get very far if we start this conversation with you determined to hate my guts.”

“Is that so?”

Mariemeia frowned at the general, probably wondering why he was in such a pisser of a mood.  “We _do_ need your help, Duo,” she said, turning back to me.

“I dunno about that, Miss M.  From what I’ve seen, you guys already have a lot of support.”

“Yes, what did you see during your _stroll_ this evening?” Dekim pressed.

I was _this_ close to rolling my eyes at the man.  He’d probably have my ass tossed in the brig for that little insubordination, though.  I winked instead and relished the way his expression soured.  Mariemeia bit back a giggle.

“Oh, a coupla hangars,” I replied with a dismissive wave of my hand.  “But, man.  You give a good speech.  Hell, I don’t mind sayin’ _I_ was motivated.”  It belatedly occurred to me that I’d just cussed in the presence of a child.  Crap.  Oh well.  She wasn’t exactly fainting in horror over it.

I glanced at her and noticed a rebellious twinkle in her eyes.  Right then and there I decided I was gonna coax some kind of _un_ ladylike language outta her before all was said and done.  I wouldn’t try to turn her into a space-surfer or anything, but she’d get bonus points for coarseness and originality.

“So you _will_ help us!” Mariemeia concluded with glee.

“Well, now, that all depends on what you’re gonna ask me to do,” I temporized.

“Pilot, of course!” she enthused.  “We have Deathscythe here, all ready for you.”

“Do you?” I mused, my heart thumping with adrenaline.

“Would you like to see it?”

“Would I ever!  Lead the way, Miss M,” I invited, planting my feet on the floor and standing.

Dekim didn’t look all that thrilled about this turn of events.  Something told me he hadn’t planned on delivering the offer like Mariemeia had.  I could only hope it was because they didn’t have the _real_ Deathscythe.  Maybe they had a crappy knock-off in their hangar, something they’d slapped together over a Leo suit to scare the pants off the War Tribunal and nothing more.

Well, I guess I’d be finding out soon enough.

With a nod to the nearest minion, the general consented to the little field trip Mariemeia and I had drummed up.  A nametag-less, expendable soldier led the way, opening the door and stepping out into the hall first.  I half expected Heero and Wufei to be out there picking their way over all the bodies they’d taken down without breaking a damn sweat.

But no.  There were no bodies.  No hostage uprising or colony takeover.  Heero and Wufei were still behaving themselves back in the conference room, it seemed.  I was almost disappointed.

We wound our way deeper into the building, in a direction Trowa and I hadn’t investigated.  Beside me, Mariemeia skipped along as if we were on our way to a freakin’ picnic.  “Hey, so, what’s the plan, Miss M?  Why d’you need Deathscythe?”

She frowned a bit.  “Um…”  Hah!  She didn’t know.  I guess good ol’ Dekim hadn’t told her that part.  On cue, she glanced up at the man and asked, “Grandfath… um, General Barton?”

He glanced at us over his shoulder, his lip curling under his salt-and-pepper mustache.  “It’s our symbol,” he replied shortly, as if he’d already explained this to her before and she hadn’t been paying attention.  Of course, he’d probably just felt pissy because she’d given away his big secret; he was her _grandfather?_   Holy crappin’ cow.  This little drama just kept gettin’ better and better, didn’t it?

Mariemeia blushed in response to the scolding tone.  I took it upon myself to distract her with something she really _ought_ to be thinking about.

“So you want me to disable the weapons on it?  I mean, if it’s just gonna be a mascot, then Deathscythe won’t need them.”

I could tell Dekim did _not_ like that suggestion.  Unfortunately, Mariemeia seemed to think that was a perfectly reasonable request.  “I suppose so…” she began slowly, obviously giving the issue careful thought for the first time.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dekim Barton barked at us.  “What would Deathscythe be without its weapons?”

“Um, a symbol?” I ventured and, I kid you not, I really thought Dekim was gonna backhand me.

Wisely, Mariemeia said nothing.  All I could do was hope she was adding things up and realizing that Deathscythe was _not_ going to be a symbol; it was going to be called into service as a deadly weapon again.  Just in case she hadn’t made that connection yet, I mused with suicidal daring, “It’d actually be a good idea to remove the weapons system otherwise it could cause a lot of damage and hurt a lot of people.”

“We shall trust the pilot to maintain the suit’s integrity,” the general replied icily.

I glanced at Mariemeia.  It pained me slightly to see the frown on her young face.  She no longer skipped along beside me.  Yeah, she was beginning to see just how serious her grandfather’s pet project really was.  This was only the tip of the iceberg, I was sure, but I didn’t dare push any more at this precise moment.  If I did, Dekim might just say to hell with it and shoot me.

The soldier at the head of our little caravan paused beside a seemingly-random door.  It looked the same as all the others lining this hallway.  There was nothing on it to indicate that a Gundam was being stored on the other side.  I clung to the hope that it wasn’t _my_ Deathscythe: the hope that Howard had somehow manufactured a copy of my suit and given it to Dekim as a gesture of good faith.

Rather than barge in self-importantly, Dekim also stepped to the side and, his thin lips twisting into a viciously victorious smile, gestured me within.  I might not have gone if Mariemeia hadn’t been right beside me.  For that reason alone, I was pretty sure there wasn’t a trap waiting for me.  I stepped inside and took in the viewing station I was standing in.  This was where engineers crunched the data they got from mobile suits in the hangar beyond the glass windows that made up an entire wall of the observation deck.  I wandered over to the windows and looked out… right into the face of Deathscythe.

I couldn’t believe it.  What in the hell had Howard been thinking just _giving_ my Gundam to these people?  My hands scrambled for the nearest window lock and I pushed the pane aside, hoping I was seeing a hologram.

I hoped in vain.  Deathscythe was really there.  And it was _really_ the real Deathscythe.  I recognized the smell of the metal and stored ammo, the sheen of the paint, the seams of the welds.  This was no copy.  This was the real deal.

Howard had a helluvalot of explaining to do.

But, clearly, that wasn’t going to happen at this exact moment.  _Focus on the here and now, Maxwell,_ Shinigami whispered.

Right.  So.  I turned and, leaning a hip against the window frame, gave Dekim Barton a crooked grin.  His cold eyes flashed with victory.  Yup, here we were.  He had something of mine that he wanted to use and I had the knowhow to make it work.  He needed the codes that were in my head; while Deathscythe wasn’t _impossible_ to hack, he’d need years and plenty of fearlessly suicidal volunteers to do it.  He had neither.

Mariemeia braced her hands on the window sill and leaned out to get a good look at my Gundam.  “It looks like a devil,” she commented softly.

“It was meant to,” I confirmed, my gaze still on Dekim.  “Its creator wanted it to look as deadly as it actually was.”  My voice softened, like I was telling a bedtime story.  “Imagine looking up and finding two glowing eyes peering at you from the darkness, then the silhouette of its horns.  The last thing you see is the green flash of the Beam Scythe arcing toward you and then—!”  I glanced at Mariemeia and, ensuring that I had her attention, I drew a finger across my own throat.  “Lights out.”

She bit her lip and shifted nervously.  “Did you kill a lot of people?”

Christ.  Only a child would ask something like that.  “Yes,” I replied.

“Who?” she pressed.

“Enemy soldiers,” I answered, and then with painful honesty, added, “Maybe civilians who worked on military bases: cooks, janitors, people like that.  People who were defenseless.”

Mariemeia opened her mouth and I braced myself for the next question.

“That’s enough, Mariemeia,” Dekim Barton ordered in a tone no child would dare cross.  “It’s getting late.”

She didn’t want to be a good girl and toddle off to bed, but she didn’t put up a fight, either.  I watched her go, feet dragging, toward the door.  She paused on the threshold and turned back toward me.

“Good night, Duo.  Thank you for helping us.”

“Good night, Miss M,” I replied with a friendly smile.  The instant the door closed behind her, it crumbled into a scowl.

The general chuckled darkly at my expression.  “Yes, there’s no need for pretense now.”  He approached the wall of windows and gazed out at my mobile suit.  “You know what I want.”

“Yeah.”  And as badly as I wanted to know how he’d conned Howard into handing over Deathscythe, it wouldn’t be very helpful.  “What’s the target?”

He chuckled.  “What makes you think you’re going to be the pilot?”

I arched a single brow at him.  Condescension and I go way back.  It was nice to buddy up with him again.  “Well, good luck poppin’ the hatch, then, ‘cuz the only way you’re gettin’ in Deathscythe is if it’s _me_ in there.”

Dekim ignored me.  Still studying the mobile suit in the hangar beyond, he mused thoughtfully, “Did you know that ‘Trowa’ was my son’s name?”

Hell, I hadn’t even known that Dekim Barton _existed_ until about twenty minutes ago.  I didn’t say that, though.  I was a bit busy filling in all the glaringly empty blanks.

“You can’t blame my husband for his death,” I said tightly.  “He was just a kid when—”

“He stole my son’s name and his role in the war.  He stole his identity, his life, his glory.”  Dekim Barton turned toward me and I tensed.  If only the four goons by the door weren’t so damn far away, I would’ve had one of their guns in my hand and been giving Dekim Barton a personal introduction to Shinigami.

The general informed me, “Your mercenary husband will pilot this Gundam in my son’s name and honor.”

OK, that was the biggest line of bullshit I’d heard so far.  This wasn’t about Goddamn honor.  This was about revenge.  I just wasn’t sure how Dekim was planning to deliver it.

“Have you suggested this to him, yet?” I replied.  “No?  I didn’t think so.  See, I know something you don’t, pal; he’ll never do it.  _Never.”_

“And you would?” he challenged.  Before I could do more than shrug indifferently, he laughed.  It was a raspy, dry, crackling sort of sound that reminded me of machinery in need of oiling.  “I don’t think so, Duo Maxwell.  If I let you inside that suit, you’ll destroy us all.”

I didn’t deny it.  What would be the point?  I said instead, “You don’t think you have enough leverage to convince me otherwise?”  There.  I was practically _inviting_ him to take Trowa hostage in order to force my compliance.

“And let you trigger the suit’s self-destruct?  No, I can’t allow that.”

“You’re assuming I’m selfless enough to even consider it.”

Dekim grinned.  “Love changes a man.”

I stiffened.

He continued, “It makes him weak, willing to lay down his life for the sake of those he cares for.”  He straightened and motioned for the goons at the door to come forward.  “We shall see if the mercenary loves you as much as you care for him,” Dekim declared.

Right, this was starting to suck.  If only I didn’t _need_ this bastard to, well, be a bastard.  If only I could just eliminate my enemies now and be done with it, but I couldn’t.  I had to put the mission first.  So, when I would have lunged for the open window and taken my chances climbing down my suit under a maelstrom of bullets, I had to restrain myself.  I merely glanced at my escape route and kept my feet firmly on the damn floor.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Dekim suggested.  “If you run, I’ll have one of your friends shot.  Say… Winner?  Perhaps in the knee.”

“My, my,” I mused.  “What a dirty, rotten scoundrel you are, Barton.  Don’t expect us to accept any of your other invitations in the future.”

“I don’t,” he replied and signaled for the goons to close in.

I fought them.  I knew I couldn’t win, but I still fought.  I put my fist into the first guy’s face, kicked the second’s knee, elbowed the third in the solar plexus and then the fourth tackled me to the ground.  I twisted as I fell, landing on my hip and doing my Maxwell best to squirm and twist and just make sure the sonuvabitch couldn’t get a good grip on me until I could roll clear, hopefully in the direction of the door.  It was a move I’d used on Heero regularly and it usually worked.

It didn’t work today.  Someone grabbed my damn braid and pulled my head back.  Shit.  At least Heero’d never done that to me.  It hurt like holy hell and my respect for my old war buddy’s self-restraint went up several notches.  No, Heero’d never gone for this cheap shot during our wrestling matches.  But I wasn’t wrestling with Heero at the moment.

At the moment, it felt like all four guys had just freakin’ piled themselves on top of me.  Fuck.  My chest was so squished I could barely breathe.  I felt cuffs of Gundanium clamping shut over my forearms and I knew better than to fight the magnetic pull that was coming.  I made sure my arms were in front of me – rather than behind my back – when it came so that my wrists ended up locked together in front of my chest otherwise I’d wind up with a pair of dislocated shoulders.  Damn, but I hated these fucking cuffs.  I’d had my fill of them when I’d been a guest of OZ.

“Bring him,” Dekim ordered and I was pulled to my feet.  I lashed out, kicking someone in the ribs before the general informed me, “One more act of resistance, Maxwell, and Quatre will have you to thank for the limp he’ll suffer the rest of his life.”

I stopped fighting.  I didn’t stop glaring, though.  Or gritting my teeth.  Or silently promising the bastard a slow, painful death once I got loose.

They manhandled me out of the room and back down the hall to the interrogation room I’d just left.  “You guys sure know how to show your guests a good time,” I snarked.  “The tour was amazing.  Why isn’t it featured on your brochure?”

They sat me down in the chair I’d enjoyed the first time around, declining to comment on my constructive criticism.  Fine.  Whatever.  If they weren’t gonna rise to the bait, then the bait would swim down and bite them on the ass.

I glanced up to find Dekim looming in the doorway, looking like all he and his puffed-up self needed was a dead animal to stand over in triumph.  “If you refuse to cooperate, Maxwell—” he began.

“Quatre.  Bullet in the knee.  I got it.”

“No, you don’t,” the general growled back.  “If you refuse to tell your husband how to access Deathscythe, _we_ will give him the access codes.”

“You don’t know them,” I retorted.

A cruel smile curved those thin lips into a gruesome grin.  “Precisely.”

Oh, that rat-ass-sucking bastard.  He _knew_ – there was no doubt about it now – that my suit would detect an attempted hack and attack the perpetrator.  And, I figured he knew that because—

“How many volunteers did you burn through trying to break your way in?”  This I asked with a cocky grin.

Dekim nodded to a goon on my left who promptly punched me in the face.  Fuck!  _Ow._   That was gonna bruise, dammit.

“You suck at popularity contests,” I informed him.

“We’ll just see about that,” Dekim pontificated before stepping back into the hall and letting the door slide closed.

I was kind of tickled that he’d left me alone with the four guys I’d punched, kicked, and elbowed in the hangar’s observation deck.  Heh.  I wondered if I could work them up into going for a second round.

“Does he always have to have the last freakin’ word?” I asked the minions.

Nobody answered.  Hell, no one even looked at me.  I decided now was a good time to pass gas as loudly as possible.  Squirming a bit in my seat, I managed a nice, squeaky fart just this side of juicy.  Whoo yeah.  Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.

I sighed out a noisy breath as if relieving the pressure in my bowels was the best thing since the invention of baked beans.  Interesting how those two coincided so nicely, eh?

The sound of a door opening in the distance roused me from my contemplation of possibly trying to belch the alphabet.  I glanced up and watched as the two-way mirror on the wall across from me was deactivated so that I could see through the glass to the other side… where Trowa was being told to take a seat.

Aw, hell.  Here it comes.  Now this – _this_ – was the moment I’d been waiting for.  You’ve been wondering, maybe, _why_ I had to be married for this mission to work?  Well, it’s all about leverage.  See, your average bad dude wouldn’t be able to trick or torture any of us pilots into giving up our Gundams.  Hell, the five of us would simply revolt and take over the damn place.  Then we’d be right back in WEI, public servants (literally) for the rest of our damn lives.  What my mission did was create a situation that was unignorable and required sacrifices.  And, as it was my op, I was gonna do my damnedest to make sure the others were kept in the loop, but on the fringes.  So, I got married and _that,_ ladies and gentlemen, gave me something to _lose._   Something that could be taken away.  I’d optimistically hoped that the bad guys would threaten Trowa’s life in order to ensure my cooperation with their dastardly plans.  It looked like things were unfolding along the lines of my less-palatable Option B, in which _I_ became the leverage used against my husband.

But this was precisely why being married to Heero never would have worked.  He’d totally take over the whole damn show and I’d be sitting on my ass in a detention cell waiting for the Preventers to show up and liberate me.  Um.  No.  _Hell_ no.

Neither Quatre nor Wufei would have _ever_ put up with the pretense in the first place.  Hell, the only reason Quatre and Wufei were even here in this tin can with the rest of us was because they’d come to watch our backs.  That was the line Howard had fed Quatre and I was sure he’d said something to the same effect to Wufei: “Duo and Trowa are headed to outer space; you gonna be a pal, get off your ass, and go after them or sit around here and waste oxygen?”

So, here we were.  Trowa and I were married.  We both had something – namely _someone_ – to lose.  And Dekim Barton was all over that weakness like black on Deathscythe.

“What the hell is this?” I showily demanded, but no one answered me.  Hell, Trowa didn’t even appear to see or hear me.  My chair tipped over as I stood, preparing to march the hell over there and bang on the damn window to let him know I was just one puny wall away.  Goon Number Three clamped a hand on my shoulder while Number Two righted my chair.  I considered resisting for the hell of it, but in the end I just sat the hell down again.  Stuff was happening in the other room and wanted to know what it was.

“General Barton,” I heard Trowa say in a reserved tone.

Craning my neck, I glimpsed Dekim posing in the doorway of the neighboring room and had to bite back a snicker.  Christ, the man was so not as photogenic as he thought he was.

He crossed the threshold and prowled closer to my husband.  I was inordinately proud of Trowa for not tensing.  Hell, he didn’t even watch the man when Dekim moved behind him and around to the wall opposite the door.  Nor did Trowa seem to give a damn about the four goons that had posted themselves throughout the room.  God, my partner was nine hundred and twelve kinds of awesome for sitting there with his arms loosely crossed and his expression blank with boredom.  It made me want to cheer.  Hell, it made me want to bow down and sing the “I’m not worthy” song.  Hm, that probably hadn’t been what he’d meant the other day when he’d told me he’d trade his immortal soul for a song, but whatever.

The general pivoted back to my husband and sneered, _“Trowa.”_

“That’s what I go by these days” was the mild reply.

“These days, you are a menace to society,” Dekim hissed.

The corner of Trowa’s mouth quirked up.  “That’s funny.  I wasn’t aware I’d met all that many people.”

I actually guffawed at this.  “Whoo baby!  How d’ya like them apples!” I crowed at the glass.  Dekim didn’t hear me.  Damnitall.

“In that case, it’s only fitting,” General Barton continued as if he hadn’t just had his ass knocked off and handed back to him, “that you – who have unfairly sullied my son’s name – now work to clear it.”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“It’s a pity we don’t see eye to eye on the subject.”  Dekim gestured to someone out of sight and the glass between the rooms brightened further.  Trowa’s gaze suddenly focused on me and I knew then that this was the part where the shit was gonna hit the proverbial fan.  I could smell it coming.

I gave Trowa a grin and a wink.  I was fine.  Everything was under control.  In answer, he lifted a hand to the collar of his shirt and pressed a finger against the pendant I knew was underneath.  Yeah, he still trusted me.

“Let’s try this again,” Dekim generously offered.  “I have something you want.”

Trowa didn’t deny it.  “What do _you_ want?”

“A pilot for Deathscythe.”

Trowa tilted his head meaningfully in my direction.  “You already have one.”

“He doesn’t call himself Trowa Barton.”

Trowa’s expression iced over and locked down.  “I’m not going to pilot a suit in your son’s name.  He was a selfish, bloodthirsty, spoiled child.  He doesn’t deserve recognition for that.”

For a minute, I actually thought Dekim was going to strike my husband right in front of me.  I held my breath.  My hands fisted and my muscles fought against the unforgiving confines of the Gundanium cuffs.  Yeah, I knew Trowa could handle a little love tap or two from the general over there, but he was my _partner._

Despite the tightening deep in my gut, Dekim didn’t swoop in and land a blow.  Instead, he looked up and met the gaze of one of the goons behind me and nodded once.

Oh, shit.  Here it comes…

I braced myself as best I could, but it was still a shock when two pairs of hands shoved me down against the table.  I kicked out, sending the chair clattering.  Booted feet hooked around mine, trapping me in place.  I heard an answering clatter in the other room as Trowa presumably stood in protest.

“Release him!” he demanded.

I wiggled and heaved.  With my arms pinned beneath me against the metal table, I had zero leverage to work with.  And then I heard the sound of a knife being drawn.

Hah!  Bring it, soldier-boys!

I struggled harder, tapping reserves of strength I hadn’t been 100% sure I still had squirreled away deep inside me.  Huh.  It was nice knowing I still had the ol’ Maxwell Oomph (patent pending) so I took it for a spin.  This was the moment for it, after all.  No point in having it if I never used it.

I felt my braid being picked up and pulled taut.  Oh my God.  For an instant, my mind blanked with shock… and then I blinked and the whole freakin’ scenario hit me in the solar plexus and I almost _laughed._

Seriously?  _Seriously?!_   These bozos were threatening _to give me a haircut?_   This was their main intimidation tactic?!  Fuckin’ _hah!_

The humor was more of a bubble than a wave and it burst almost as quickly as it had swelled into existence.  Somebody pulled harder on my hair and I was suddenly rip-roarin’ _pissed._   These bastards pawing at my hair were goin’ _down._   Fuckin’ _nobody_ touches my hair except for me and Trowa!

 _“No!”_ Trowa shouted.  “Get your hands off of him _right now!”_

While I appreciated the gesture, it didn’t do a whole helluvalot.  I heard a rhythmic banging and – damn! – was Trowa freakin’ _beating_ against the glass window?  He damn well was!  Which probably meant he’d freakin’ _leaped_ over the table in an effort to get to me.

Of course, attacking the mastermind himself or going for a minion’s sidearm would have been more effective, but this was all just for show.  I hoped to holy hell that he-who-thirsts-for-world-conquest over there was freakin’ enjoying it because I damn well wasn’t gonna be giving an encore.  _Take the bait, you sonuvabitch!  Take it and choke on it!_

Suddenly, there was one last sharp pull, the soft whisper of a slicing cut, and then… nothing.  The weight that had always kept me on the level, that had reminded me that there really were people – good people – worth knowing, worth trusting, and worth fighting for, was gone.  A wisp of hair tumbled into my vision and I blinked at the uniformly trimmed ends.

Fucking hell.  Those Goddamn bastards.  They’d—!

My braid was tossed onto the table in front of me like it was nuthin’ more than a sack of dirty laundry.

“Duo!” Trowa rasped.

I closed my eyes, knowing that tone, knowing the fury that produces it.  Yeah, he was pissed.  So was I on one or more levels, but this was the price of the mission.  It was also the _only_ one I was willing to pay.  I gathered my resolve, sharpened my focus, and pushed away the rage as well as the vague sense of betrayal – was it possible to betray yourself when you’d half-expected it to happen all along? – and cued Trowa with a look.  The ball was bouncing over to his court now.  Time for the grudgingly cooperative free throw.

Meeting Trowa’s gaze, I saw a heartache that had to be genuine and – you wanna know something bizarre? – even though I wasn’t really all _that_ upset about the loss of my braid, I was _furious_ on Trowa’s behalf.  I was sorry for _him._   My braid had meant something to Trowa and I’d lost it.  No, check that: I’d _allowed_ it to be taken.  I’d let that bastard Dekim put me in this position.  I hadn’t fought as hard as I could have and maybe should have.  And now this was the result.  Above all else, I really wished Trowa hadn’t had to see that.

But there wasn’t a whole helluvalot I could do about it now.  Channeling all that anger, I pushed myself away from the table and shook off the minions with a teeth-baring grin and a manic light in my eyes.  “Is it too late to request a bob?” I quipped, my tone so sharp and flippant, I thought it was gonna leave visible marks on all of us.  “Because this straight cut just ain’t workin’ for me.”

No one answered, but then again, I didn’t really expect them to.

My chair was righted again and I was shoved the hell down into it.  I clenched my jaw, gnawing on a token protest and an oath that would damn them all to flaming hell for putting that pain in my Trowa’s expressive, green eyes.  My gaze flickered briefly down to the hollow of Trowa’s throat where the pendant I’d given him rested.   _Don’t you dare give up, dammit,_ I tried to say with narrowed eyes and the stubborn angle of my chin.

A tiny flicker of something passed over Trowa’s expression.  It was too brief for me to clearly identify what it was.  I hoped it was an acknowledgement of my obscure message.  But, considering the day I’d been having, hope was probably a total wasted effort.

Trowa turned his chin slightly to the side and addressed General Barton.  I heard The Silencer in his tone when he rumbled, “You will pay for that.”

Dekim Barton nodded again at one of the goons and I felt the sharp edge of a blade beneath my right ear.  Offensive reflexes that had been drilled into me during my pilot training kicked in and I had to beat them back down and force myself to hold the hell still.  Christ, the general was really on a roll with all these threats of non-fatal maiming.

“Actually, it will be Duo who pays if you continue to be uncooperative,” Dekim informed us both.  “And the next bit we cut off may never grow back.”

Have you ever watched as someone fantasized in great detail about murdering another person in cold blood?  I have.  I was a witness to that very thing as Trowa’s expression darkened and hardened right in front of me.  I knew what he was thinking.  He was imagining Dekim at his mercy, bloody and begging for death.  Maybe his imagination put the bastard in the palm of his Gundam.  Or maybe a garrote was involved or a gun.  I wasn’t sure what Trowa’s preferred method would be in this case, but oh yes.  I knew what he was thinking.  And I had to force myself not to let him do it.  No, this was not the time for Trowa to step into his old office and get to work.  Dekim hadn’t doled out enough rope with which to hang himself yet.  Soon, he would – I was sure of it – but not yet.

“I’m fine, babe,” I said in a firm tone.

Trowa’s throat worked as he swallowed with an effort.  Damn, but I was so giving the man a frickin’ _award_ when we got through this.  I mean, he was freakin’ _choked up_ over my encouragement.  Holy hell.

“Don’t agree to anything,” I coached him but then negated that by wincing theatrically when the blade of the knife bit into the flesh of my ear.  I don’t think I imagined the soft splatter of a drop of blood on the collar of my leather jacket.  Well, at least it wouldn’t leave a _noticeable_ stain.

“Stop,” Trowa ordered in that damned deadman’s tone of his.  He was staring at my collar, though, so I guess I was bleeding a bit.  “I’ll do it.”  He then looked up into my eyes.  When he next spoke, the words were an order, but the regret in his eyes made them into something that was almost a plea: “Show me how to pilot Deathscythe.”

At this point, I couldn’t afford to refuse.  Or, rather, the mission required that I give in.  I figured I’d probably put up enough of a fuss for my cooperation to seem genuine now.  Besides, if I continued denying Dekim access to Deathscythe, I’d start losing non-necessary body parts and Trowa – out an effort to protect his partner – would probably try to hack into my Gundam on his own.  And _that_ was gonna result with him being injured or _worse._   So.  This was my cue; I closed my eyes and sighed in resignation.  The knife was withdrawn and I resisted the urge to check my injury.  It only felt like a nick, anyway, so I figured I’d just let it clot and worry about washing up later.

When I opened my eyes again, Trowa was still standing at the window but now one of his palms was pressed against the glass.  That called to me in a way that his impressive display of temper earlier hadn’t.

“Get him a headset with a camera and link it up to a mic and a monitor in here,” I ordered Dekim’s minions without removing my gaze from Trowa’s.  “The power-up sequence is a series of random prompts and response time is limited.  I’ll need to see what he sees in order to walk him through it.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Dekim nodding in acquiescence and two goons scampered off to do my bidding.  I would have gloated more if I hadn’t been mesmerized by Trowa’s silent vigil.  Ignoring the other two minions still standing guard, I stood and slid over the table top – Mad Hatter style – to the other side where I could stand opposite my husband and press my palm to the glass over his.  The cuffs made it awkward, but I didn’t pay much attention.  I was thinking about how weirdly light-weight my hair was and how strangely fragile-feeling.  A stray breeze never used to stir the locks at the nape of my neck the way it did now.  I imagined I must look pretty ridiculous, and I was suddenly thankful that Trowa had tucked his necklace and pendant back inside his turtleneck at some point before this behemoth of a task had passed the point of no return.  The last thing I wanted was for Dekim to take that, too.

Is it weird if I say I’ve never felt closer to Trowa than I did at the moment?  We were separated by glass, watched by our enemies, and in clear and present danger, but there was something between us that could not be separated, severed, or shattered.  It was trust, I realized with a spurt of adrenaline.  _Trust._

Oh, I was damn sure Trowa was gonna rip me a new one for letting those sonsuvbitches hack off my braid, but he was trusting me to play my part, such as it was.  I only wished I’d been able to work it the other way around so that it was me behind the yoke instead of him.

We didn’t say anything as doors opened and closed around us.  Trowa took the headset Random Goon Number… er, Number Whatever handed him without looking away from me.  We stayed right where we were until the video monitor was brought into my room and set up on the table.  Trowa’s gaze flickered toward the power cables and my lips quirked into a knowing grin.  Oh yeah, he was back to imagining Dekim’s Demise.

“Time to go to work, babe,” I whispered as the goons stepped back and righted my chair with a meaningful clatter.

Trowa’s mouth twitched into a tiny smile in a knee-jerk reaction to my levity.  “Since when do you work overtime?”

“First time for everything!” I bantered recklessly.

“Duo…” he began and then just stopped.

I took in the look on his face.  He did not want to do this.  He didn’t want to pilot Deathscythe, to be used like a damn ticking time bomb by a man who didn’t care if innocents were killed.  “Yeah,” I whispered in agreement.  “Me, too.”

And then Trowa was being shoved – er, I mean _escorted_ – toward the door.

“Hold the hell up, pal!” I barked at the offender.  “We’ve gotta test the comm. link first.”

I glanced at Trowa again.  I wanted to tell him I had his back.  I wanted him to know that just because I’d sacrificed my braid, I was _not_ going to sacrifice the peace _or_ him.  But what I said was, “Put it on.  Let’s see if it works.”

As he fitted the headset onto his left ear, I turned toward the table and, ignoring the chair held out for me, picked up my own headpiece.  Mine was mic and speaker only whereas his had a camera attached, all of which needed to be tested.  I leaned down to the monitor and saw an image of myself on the screen, bracing myself above the table and scowling at the equipment.  I tried to ignore the view of my hacksaw-haircut and the pile of severed braid from Trowa’s point of view, but the picture seared itself into my memory.

Closing my eyes briefly, I gathered my focus and looked up at Trowa.  “Focus on something small, point nine meters away, angled low,” I instructed.

“Copy that,” he complied, his voice warm and steady in my ear.  He glanced at the utility belt of a nearby minion and reported back, “Confirm video feed.  Over.”

I checked the monitor.  The picture was clear, centered, and focused.  Also very educational – I now knew the _exact_ make and model of the handgun that came standard around here.  Hm.  Could be useful intel. 

Next, I instructed, “Now something up high at a distance of point four five meters.”  Again, a clear picture.  This time of a soldier’s stupid cap.  “OK, roger that.  We’re good to go,” I judged, my pulse rate picking up.  Trowa glanced back my way and I was suddenly watching myself struggle not to grin like a bloodthirsty demon right there on the monitor.  Huh.  Fun, but creepy.  I tried to take it down a notch.  Dekim didn’t need to know he’d played right into my hands.

Then the view changed as Trowa turned toward the door.  Like a comedy of errors, that’s when I perversely decided that _I_ wanted just one more glimpse of him.  Isn’t that some kind of technique used by sadistic movie directors to illustrate the romantic connection between two star-crossed lovers?  The very thought bothered me way more than it should have.  Trowa and I weren’t star-crossed.  Hell, there wasn’t any romance to get star-crossed _over._   Er, was there?

 _Do the angsting damsel routine later, Maxwell,_ Shinigami chirped cheerfully.  The imaginary sound of that voice was so freaky, it actually jarred me back to reality.  Giving myself a shake, I blinked at the monitor and watched from Trowa’s point of view as he stepped into the hallway.

“Y’know,” I drawled into the mic, “you’re really not _that_ much taller than me.”

My comment startled a chuckle out of him.  “Comparing the view?”

“Of course not.”  I sniffed pompously.

“I don’t believe you.”

I wondered if it was immature of me to make a rude hand gesture at the monitor.  “Well, that’s your problem.”

“We’re married,” he argued.  “My problem is your problem.”

And, just like that, everything else just freakin’ faded away.  I didn’t care that a bunch of people – maybe even Dekim himself – were listening in.  I didn’t anticipate the fancy footwork I was gonna have to pull off in the very near future.  I didn’t think about every single damn thing that could go wrong.  None of it even registered as a blip on my radar.

“Is it too late for a do-over?” I joked.

“Absolutely.”

“Tell ya what,” I finagled.  “Let’s play rock-paper-scissors for it.  Best out of three.”

“I am not agreeing to that,” he informed me in a droll tone.

“Where’s your gambler’s spirit?” I challenged back.

“Waiting to see how his first bet plays out.”

“Huh,” I muttered.  “Not much of a multi-tasker, are you?”

“Hmm,” he agreed.  “And I expect you to take full advantage of that later.”

My mind immediately swan-dived into a nice, comfy, rumpled bed with a pair of sweaty bodies and their gasping breaths.  “Dammit,” I complained.  “You do this kind of shit on purpose.”

“What do I do?” he dared me to explain.  His tone was too innocent for him to _not_ know what I was talking about.

I glared at the monitor.  “Drive me total batshit crazy.”

I could freakin’ _hear_ his triumphant smile.  “Crazy’s a nice place.  I’ve been there several times.”

I barked out a laugh at the reminder.  Yeah, that was Tro, all right.  Turning my own witty moments around and using them against me.  “There’s a word for guys like you.”  I stopped the comment there and let it dangle juicily.

“Charming?”

“Wacko.”

“Ah, but you like that about me.”

I cackled.  “Am I so transparent?”

“If only,” he replied in a wistful tone that brought a regretful end to our back-and-forth.

I sighed, recalling the minions, the goons, the psychopathic egomaniac, and the mission.  For five glorious minutes, none of that stuff had existed.  For that brief span of time, the sum total of the universe had been the sound of Trowa’s voice.  I wanted that back, dammit, but the hangar doors were directly ahead.

Clearing my throat, I said, “Don’t touch the hatch without letting me take a look at it first.  You copy?”

“Copy that.”

Biting back a second sigh, I plopped my ass down in my chair and propped my left foot up on my right knee.  It had the advantage of being the perfect height for resting my cuffed forearms, the skin of which was starting to chafe.  It was just as well I didn’t have to type while wearing the damn things.

I fiddled with the leather seams of my good ol’ combat boot, tapping with impatience as Trowa entered the hangar and gazed up at my ol’ buddy Deathscythe.  It felt viscerally _wrong_ knowing that someone other than me was gonna be climbing into that cockpit, but I was conversely proud that it’d be Trowa in there.  I’d programmed Deathscythe’s security system according to my own unique logic and humor.  I was looking forward to hearing what Trowa thought of it.  I suppose that was a statement in and of itself; if it had been any of the other guys, I’d be bracing myself for their censure and bafflement.  The fact that the thought didn’t cross my mind in Trowa’s case probably said something.  It probably said a helluvalot.  Later, if I had a couple minutes of leisure time, I might contemplate that.

As it turned out, the hatch was still locked.  Trowa’s headset cam gave me a great view of ‘Scythe’s sealed cockpit.  I could detect a couple of scorch marks that hadn’t been there before and smirked with satisfaction.  Yeah, my security system was every bit as awesome as I’d thought it was.  “You’re gonna love this,” I informed Trowa and then started talking him through the unlocking sequence.

Basically, the whole thing was a series of ones and zeros.  Yup.  Binary code.  And the message?  None other than the famous soliloquy from Shakespeare’s Hamlet.  Well, with a few _small_ changes.

“To quote or not to quote, that is the question,” I narrated slowly enough so that Trowa could translate each character to its binary equivalent and punch it into the remote keypad.  “Whether to use some dead guy’s words or make up my own and kick his rotting ass.”

“This is sacrilege,” Trowa complained as he punched away at the remote.

I continued on through the whole damn thing – and, in case it’s been a while since you’ve read or heard it, that little speech of Hamlet’s is damn _long –_ and each line had been colorfully altered by yours truly.  For instance:

“To forgive or to wreck vengeance on that pillaging plebian Heero Yuy who stole my buddy’s parts without so much as a thank you…”

And then there was:

“Who could put up with Wufei’s snooty tone, Quatre’s excessively pastel wardrobe, Trowa’s—”  At this point, I paused, bit my lip, and waited for the next object of my litany of complaints to prompt me with a soft “Yes…?”

I cleared my throat and hedged, “Uh, you realize that I set this code _years_ ago, right?  Uh, before I really got to know you an’ stuff?”

“Uh huh…”

I sighed and got the hell on with it.  “Trowa’s trigger-happy, Deathscythe-blasting hobby, Heero’s ongoing love affair with his Goddamn laptop—”

“Is ‘Goddamn’ one word in this case?” Trowa checked.

“Er, yeah,” I answered.  “Capital G.”  Of course.

“Roger that.”

And so it went until we got to the very end.  “With this Beam Scythe, I leap into the fray and start kicking some serious ass.”

When Trowa was done, he let out a long sigh.  “Duo.”

“Um, yeah?”

“I’m telling Wufei about this.”

“Do it and die, babe,” I retorted, wincing as I imagined the guy’s reaction to my battle-wit rendition of a cherished classic.  Actually, I was pretty sure Trowa’d have to scrape me off the bottom of Altron’s Gundanium-alloy foot if Wufei ever found out about this…

But then the hatch was hissing open and Trowa asked, “All clear to enter?”

“Be warned: as soon as you do, you have to hit the self-destruct button.”

There was a long moment of silence as Trowa paused, balanced on the threshold, camera pointed at the pilot’s seat.  “What?”

“It’s not wired to the _actual_ self-destruct system.  I tried it once.  G disabled it before I ever took the damn thing to Earth.  After the war, I popped the panel off and hotwired it into the security system.”

“If I don’t hit it fast enough, what will happen?”  He didn’t sound concerned about it.  Actually, I was pretty sure he was just curious.

“The start-up sequence takes six hours instead of two.”

“Is that your way of telling me now would be the time to use the head if I’m in need?”

I barked out a laugh.  “Yeah.  But you might want to check your super special headset at the door unless you wanna give your husband and unknown others an eyeful.”

“Acknowledged,” he replied and we took a ten minute break for annoying, mortal man necessities like taking a piss, guzzling some caffeine, and wolfing down some sustenance.

In my case, I made the goons fetch and carry.  That was fun.  What was even better was the fact that, in the midst of the activity, I managed to achieve my next mission objective.  Remember that convenient, hidden compartment in my boot heel where I’d kept the microtransmitter safe and sound all these years?  Well, that compartment had a distant cousin.  A concealed pocket at the heel of the shoe, above the sole and set into the leather, contained the best invention since magnetic arm cuffs made of weapon’s grade Gundamium: the battery-powered magnetic-charge-cancelling lock picks needed to render the damn cuffs useless.

They looked innocuously like largish, black hair ties and I fished them out, activated them, and slipped them over my wrists while Dekim’s minions were deciding who had babysitting duty with me in the john.  Little did they know that the damage had already been done.  The bands were already tucked under the edge of my cuffs and emitting a magnetic resonance that would weaken the force holding my cuffs together in under an hour.  Of course, there’d be no point in making my cuffs completely useless or else I’d have my work cut out for me faking my own confinement, but when the time came, my right hook was gonna announce itself at this little party.  Oh yes it was.

So, bladder emptied, stomach somewhat full, and whistle wetted, I plunked my ass back down behind the monitor.  I had no idea what the hell time it was; I hadn’t seen a clock or window on my little jaunt to the water closet.  For all I knew, we were well into the next day cycle in this damn place.

“Tro-babe?” I asked into the mic.  After a moment, the view changed from a constant and unwavering picture of Deathscythe’s opened cockpit (Trowa must have set the headpiece down on a nearby diagnostics station before he’d gone to take care of his business) and blurred as the device was picked up.  I was treated to a brief flash of Trowa’s face before he placed the headset back over his left ear and it was back to that couple-of-inches-higher-than-normal view.

“I’m back,” he said.

“I noticed,” I answered.  I imagined his lips twitched into one of those cute little smiles of his.

“No flying tackle required this time.”

“Aw, I’m sure you’ll get another shot at it.”

“Promises, promises.”

“Are you up for this?” I asked suddenly.  “Two hours of no blinking?”

There was a pause on Trowa’s end.  I didn’t think he was really debating with himself over it.  I mean, of course he was gonna do it.  But the real question was whether or not he was ready.  After a moment, he replied, “Yes, talk me through it,” and I knew he’d just finished battening down all the mental hatches and securing any loose items which might shift around during takeoff.  He was ready for this marathon, so I fired the proverbial starting pistol.

“Then have a seat, babe, hit the self-destruct, and make yourself comfortable.”

And it was a good damn thing the pilot’s seat was state-of-the-art – hell, it even had freakin’ lumbar support! – because Trowa was stuck in it for two damn hours.  I was actually kind of envious by the time we were halfway through the slideshow of randomly presented images and prompts.  I wiggled and shifted trying to find a more comfortable position in my damn plastic chair.  Yeah, that was a mission fail.  Anyway… at least I got the magnetic lock picks pulled off and tucked into a pocket of my jeans without anyone noticing.  With how much I was already wiggling around, nobody paid the sleight-of-hand any mind at all.

Another photo flashed on Deathscythe’s screen.  This one was of Howard posing in that damn pink Hawaiian shirt of his.  There were a dozen possible associations with this photo – he was standing on the deck of the Sweepers’ main ocean barge; it was a clear day; he was wearing those stupid sunglasses; hell, any number of things could be said about the image – but what I coached Trowa to type in was simply: _snazzy duds._

That’s basically how it went.  For two damn hours.

When the last prompt finally appeared, text this time – _I run and hide but I never…_ – and the answer was supplied – “…lie to a priest” – I just slumped down in my seat, back and shoulders aching.

“I’m in,” Trowa reported.

“Copy that,” I sighed out wearily.  “Lemme talk you through the operating system setup so you can get started.”

So we spent another hour and a half on that.  Binary code password soliloquy and word association prompts only just scratched the surface of the security measures I’d put in place.  Before I’d signed off and shut my buddy down for the last time, I’d gone through and altered most of the algorithms that translated the movements of the yoke into offensive attacks.  All those equations had to be spiffed back up to the originals again.

“OK, now, for the Beam Scythe,” I began, chin in the palm of my hand as I leaned heavily on the tabletop.

“Damn,” Trowa muttered.  “Paranoid much?”

“Hey, mobile suits are dangerous, pal-y,” I retorted.  No one knew that as well as I did.  Mobile suits were a snap to steal and frighteningly easy to use.  The fact that innocent people were startlingly easy to kill with them was more or less the sum total of my nightmare fodder, to tell ya the truth.

Trowa didn’t respond to that.  I think he heard the tetchy tone in my voice and, rather than asking for details, he simply filed it away.  “Do you have _any_ firepower in this damn thing?” he complained.

Heh.  Yeah.  Trowa… _complaining._   Now that was priceless.  I wondered if I would have noticed it in his tone a week ago.  Possibly.  We _were_ friends, after all, but now we were more.  Now, we were _partners._

“I come from the school of Gundam where piloting is an _art,_ babe.  Any monkey can push a trigger button.”

Yeah, I was totally talking trash about his Heavyarms and long-range fighting style.  Holy hell, but Trowa’s Gundam packed the frickin’ _heat._   Pretty much all of my memories of him in a fight were of missiles roaring, bullets flying, and mushroom clouds of flame and smoke in the distance.

“Eek eek,” Trowa deadpanned and I laughed so hard I had to lay my head down on the table for balance.

“My monkey…” I crooned on a wheeze.  I imagined Trowa was smiling.  “Are you ready to learn some new tricks?”

“I await your wisdom.”

I snorted.  “Right.  Let’s fix those Beam Scythe algorithms and then we’ll back up to the cloaking device and the Maxwell Lecture on super stealth.”

So, I talked.  And talked.  And explained some stuff… I dunno what-all.  And then I told an anecdote because it seemed like a good idea at the time… and then I talked some more.  After God only knows how long, Trowa finally said, “Stop, Duo.  You’re slurring so badly I can’t understand you.”

“OK,” I think I said.  My face was oddly numb and I couldn’t remember what I’d seen on the monitor the last time I’d opened my tearing, itchy eyes.

“Let’s take a break.”

“Sounds good.”  I didn’t even bother to take off the headset.  I just stretched my shackled arms out in front of me – careful not to let the now-weak cuffs drift apart – and leaned my cheek on an arm.  Oh, Christ, I was tired.  My own bicep had never been a more comfortable pillow.

I was plummeting into a sleep death spiral when I heard a voice in my ear, a soft rumble that sounded like a collection of Trowa-words.  “Sleep fast, darling,” the voice murmured warmly, and then I was swallowed up by oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I referred to the Wiki Gundam site for technical specs on Deathscythe (and Deathscythe Hell).
> 
> Duo’s reference to mobile suits being easy to steal and use is drawn from the events in the Episode Zero manga, since he did both at like the age of eight or something.


	11. Quitters Never Win

# Chapter 11: Quitters Never Win

_We walk the plank on a sinking ship…_

 

“Duo!”

My head jerked up, my knee banged against the underside of the table, and my mouth was off an’ running before I even opened my eyes.  “Hit the thrusters an’ input the following code on my mark—!”

“Duo, stop,” Trowa’s voice soothed apologetically in my ear via the still-clinging headset.  “Everything’s fine.”

“Fine?” I parroted, blinking at the innards of Deathscythe’s cockpit being displayed on the monitor.  There were no amber alarms or flashing oh-shit lights, no sirens belching, no poisonous gas venting at the hapless pilot trapped within the locked-down suit.  I skimmed what I could see of the controls and screens.  Huh.  Everything appeared to be operating normally.  In which case— 

“Then what the hell’d’ja wake me up for?” I bitched, rubbing a hand over my stubbly chin to check for drool crust.

“You were snoring.”

“The hell I was.”

“Loudly.”

“Whatever, pal.”

And then a third voice softly interjected over the line.  It was a tiny sound – the deliberate clearing of a throat – and I somehow knew it was both feminine and friendly: Hilde was contacting us.

“I’m goin’ back to sleep,” I announced.  “Wake me if you actually have a _question,_ smarty pants.”  With that order, I leaned back in my chair and, in the process, checked the status of the pair of minions watching over me in the room – they both looked bored outta their brainwashed, glory-seeking minds.  I stretched my arms out between my knees, tilted my head down until my chin rested on my chest, and closed my eyes.

“Do I bore you, Duo?” Hilde asked softly on a laugh.  “Don’t answer that.”

I didn’t.

“Sorry for the rude awakening,” she continued, but she didn’t sound all that damn sorry.  From that statement I decided she must’ve asked Trowa to do the honors just in case I blurted out something stupid before I was completely awake.

I coughed.

Hilde got on with it.  “I have updates.  They’ve been moving the colony into a closer Earth orbit.  Also, most of the troops have been assigned to a mobile suit.  Deployment is in fourteen hours.”

Ah, so they _did_ have manned suits here.  Dammity damn damn _damn!_

“But here’s the thing,” she told us, “the mobile dolls – _all_ of them – are going to be deployed in twelve hours… along with Deathscythe.”

I was burning to ask how she knew this.  I was also burning to ask what the target was.

“If what I read was the actual battle plan,” Hilde whispered, “then Trowa will be accompanying the mobile dolls to Brussels to launch an attack on the ESUN compound, which is where Relena and several other dignitaries are being held by fifty-two of Barton’s soldiers.  Preventers have moved in, but can’t establish contact.  They’ve been in a stand-off for over twelve hours now.  No negotiations at all in that time.”

I took note of the stressed tone in Hilde’s voice and agreed with it.  So far, this was looking like a setup: Trowa was gonna go down to Earth in my Deathscythe to “handle” the rebels who had taken over the ESUN headquarters.  The delayed deployment of Barton’s manned mobile suit forces suggested they wouldn’t be the reinforcements, no matter what Dekim said about honoring his dead son’s name.  No, the manned mobile suits would be the cavalry, riding in to “save” the people of Earth from a swarm of mobile dolls and a crazed Gundam pilot on the warpath.

“Trowa’s orders will be to _destroy_ the building,” Hilde reported through what sounded like gritted teeth.  “Then Dekim steps in and Trowa supposedly self-detonates.”

Oh, _man._   Blowing up a Gundam was pretty tough to do, but it was possible.  Especially if they had access to the cockpit and main computer which – thanks to me and my recent talk-through to Trowa – they did.  It would be easy enough to plant a bomb inside the cockpit so that even if the suit wasn’t blown to hell and back, the pilot would be toast.

I swallowed thickly.  With a threat like that hanging over our heads, I was gonna have a job of it outmaneuvering these bastards.  Oh, I could do it, but timing would be key.

Hilde summed up, “Then Mariemeia becomes queen of the universe and Barton establishes a military dictatorship that lasts until the end of time yada yada yada.”

OK, yeah.  That plan was gonna have to be changed, because the only way it was happening was over my dead body.

“So, here’s the rundown.  Howard’s on level three, in detention cell eleven.  He’s secure.  And Heero—”

I listened closely, fidgeting occasionally to make it look like I really _was_ dozing (with the expected level of discomfort given the chair I was in) while Hilde outlined where all the guys were being held in relation to my location and the hangar.  She gave us intel on the comm. room and the main computer hub and then finished off with, “I’ll be staying behind to monitor communications following both deployments.  I’ll find a way to contact you again if anything else comes up.”

I sighed out a breath in acknowledgement.

“Good luck, guys,” she said, and then she was gone.

I could only hope she’d covered her tracks when she’d hacked into the system.  I knew she was a smart girl and I doubted anyone other than Trowa and I had heard her message, but I didn’t know how paranoid Dekim was.  I had no way of knowing if he’d been counting on some kind of internal sabotage and had left false mission plans lying around on purpose.  Nor did I have any way of knowing if any Dekim drones had been assigned to scan the airwaves or monitor the communications bandwidth.  Christ, there were so _many_ damn things that could go wrong, but my gut told me that this plan had to be taken seriously.  It totally jived with what I’d expect from a guy like Dekim Barton.

Which just served to piss me off even more.

That bastard was gonna use the five of us Gundam pilots as a rallying point.  He was going to point to Trowa’s “suicide bombing” and the fact that he’d done it in _my_ Deathscythe to prove how dangerous we all were.  The people of Earth – and not just the War Tribunal – would call for our executions this time and Dekim Barton would be more than happy to oblige them.  Then Mariemeia would charm her way to the throne.

But… wait.  There was something missing there.  The general still needed some kind of leverage to use against the national governments on Earth.  Something like… like…

Trowa coughed and it was such a surprisingly _normal_ sound to hear from a guy who takes control to a whole new level that my eyes blinked open and I found myself blearily peering at a file listing in Deathscythe’s system cache.  One directory in particular caught my eye.  I remembered burying these files and deactivating all the commands associated with them ages ago.  Hell, G had even coached me through it.  Considering what was in that folder, the obsolete files cache was the best place for it.

I was looking at Operation Meteor.

Holy.  Fuck.

It made perfect sense.  _Horribly_ perfect sense.  Dekim was going to threaten to drop X18999 on Earth – destroying life as we know it – if he didn’t get his way.

Y’know, this kind of shit is what happens when kids don’t outgrow the tendency toward temper tantrums: they develop ruthless plots for world conquest.

Since it was possible someone else might be seeing the same thing I was, I cleared my throat and rasped phlegmily as if I were forcing myself to remain conscious, “Are we having fun yet?”

“I’ve beaten Solitaire seventeen times so far,” Trowa replied, scrolling through the other files in the cache as if browsing out of curiosity.

“Out of fifty games?”

“Fourty-nine.”  He actually sounded a little hurt at my _gross_ overestimate.

“I’m not so sure that’s something to brag about,” I mused.

“But there’s still a chance that you’ll be impressed,” Trowa argued.

I grinned.  “Stick with the flying tackles, babe.”

“Roger that.”

Despite the overwhelming craving for something bursting with caffeine, I forced myself to ask, “You got the Beam Scythe logarithms all set?”  He’d still have to tweak them a bit once he could actually light up and swing the weapon, but I wanted to be sure he was familiar with the programming language G’d installed before he suited up and shipped out.  The vacuum of space was so not the place to learn a new machine lingo for the first time, believe you me.

“For the most part,” he replied.  “I’ll need your help once I’m out-ship.”

I highly doubted he’d _need_ my help, but he was giving me the chance to accept or refuse a position in the comm. room while he was on his way to Earth.  I accepted like the offer was about to expire.  “Sign me up, babe.  Just say when an’ where an’ I’ll be there with bells on.”

He chuckled.  It was a dark and sexy and very suggestive sound.  “Now there’s an image.”

“I said _bells_ not _bows.”_   I rolled my eyes.

“Why not both?”

“Hah!  You make me laugh.”

He subsided and I watched as he ran through a few training simulations to test his familiarity and accuracy with Deathscythe’s weapons and thruster controls.  The Beam Scythe was fairly unique, so I figured he’d need the most practice with that.  Oh, and the Hyper Jammers.  Piloting Deathscythe was a whole other deal compared to Heavyarms: Trowa’s Gundam was classic in-your-face-bitch, whereas my buddy ‘Scythe was more of the tiptoe-up-from-behind-and-tap-you-on-the-shoulder- _hello!_ type.

I watched as Trowa handled the controls.  I sometimes gave timely suggestions or warned him to anticipate some counter reaction to whatever maneuver he’d executed, and sometimes I just shut the hell up and made mental notes of fiddly junk to bring up after the sim. ended.

When he got himself backed up against the proverbial wall and I had to order him to use the Hyper Jammers to simply evade the enemy, I decided school was out for the time being.  “Stop, babe.  You’re exhausted.”  And obviously not thinking clearly if he was gonna launch a head-on attack against _that_ enemy formation.  The hell.  Did Trowa collect harness bruises?  Because that’s what he would’ve ended up with if he’d been in a _real_ battle.  Jesus.

The fact that he didn’t protest the order spoke volumes.  We both knew that the instant he left that cockpit, the engineers and scientists would swarm, planting whatever explosive devices or viral software Dekim had ordered installed, but there was nothing we could do about it.  Dekim was hedging his bets so well with regards to the leaders of Earth that there was no way he wasn’t gonna make sure he had total control of both Trowa and me: in my case, I wouldn’t dare interfere with the operation unless I wanted Dekim to push the button that ended the Trowa Barton Show permanently; in Trowa’s case, he’d do as he was told unless he didn’t care if a goon introduced my brain to a bullet.

Of course, there was the smallest chance that Dekim didn’t know we’d been told about the big finale part of his plan; the part where Trowa “suicide bombs” the damn ESUN building in Brussels.  Well, if that was the case, we’d let him think he was a genius for a little while longer.

And if he really _was_ planning on sacrificing my husband to further his military campaign of lies and blackmail, then I’d freakin’ owe Hilde a damn steak dinner.  The intel she’d given us was invaluable.  If, as I mentioned earlier, we could trust it to be accurate and not a plant.

With a sigh that sounded like it started somewhere around the soles of his aching feet it was so damn deep, Trowa unbuckled himself from the pilot’s seat and moved toward the door.  The swarm was – predictably – standing by.  There was a moment of hesitation as an assistant stepped forward and held out his hand.

“The headset, sir.”

“I guess this is goodbye for now,” I mused, my smile wry.

It was a measure of his exhaustion that Trowa merely said in a stress-strained tone, “I miss you already.”

And, I guess it was a measure of mine that the best I could come up with in response was a totally lame “Me, too.”

I glimpsed his face – drooping eyelids, dark circles, pale skin, tense expression – as he lifted the gizmo off his ear and handed it to the hovering grunt.  But that wasn’t all I saw.  I saw the lump of the pendant beneath his shirt and the hard gleam in his green eyes.

Yeah, we could do this.  We were _gonna_ do this.  I just needed to see to a few more details first.

I then saw a blur that was most likely the hangar ceiling, a glimpse of Deathscythe and some nerdy type sticking his head in the cockpit, and then… nothing.  Someone had shut off the headset and was probably putting it away even now.  I really, _really_ didn’t like _not_ knowing what was going on with Trowa.  I sat there for a full minute – by my count – staring at the snow on the monitor before someone pulled the plug.

“Are we on a budget?” I inquired instead of asking if _someone_ was behind on their electric bill.

“Come with us, Mr. Maxwell.”

 _And get jettisoned out into space,_ I didn’t joke.  Probably because it wasn’t really much of a joke.  Hell, Dekim was probably seriously considering it, might even have ordered it if Trowa hadn’t thought to inform me that he’d need my help in the near future.

Damn.  That’s probably why he’d said it.  It was a guarantee that I’d remain alive, unharmed, and a comm. link up away.

 _I love you, baby,_ I didn’t say… and then I wondered if I would have said it if Trowa’d been able to hear me.  And… would I have meant it?  _Did_ I mean it?

 _Oh, Maaaaxwell…!_   I winced as Shinigami sidled into my awareness.  Yeah.  That question – as well as its mosh pit of close cousins – was one of the nine billion things I should not be thinking about right now.

I kept all these thoughts to myself as the minions led me out of the room and down the empty hall… in the opposite direction of the hangar and the suite I’d settled into the evening before.  This simple act kinda clinched it; I wasn’t gonna be able to see Trowa.  I frowned at the odd sensation of my heart slip-sliding into a puddle of disappointment.

_Oi!  Knock it the hell off!  If they tossed your dumb ass back in the suite, just how in the hell would you manage the next objective of your mission, dammit?_

OK, that bucked me the hell up.

As I suspected, I wasn’t taken back to the suite.  I guess a guy of my importance warranted nothing less than the finest in detention cell technology.  At least, that’s what I gathered as I was marched down the corridor on level three, past room eleven.  Presumably, Howard was in there.  And just across the hall and three doors down, was my ol’ mission partner, Heero Yuy.

Right.  Time to launch this pontoon.  I didn’t give any physical sign that I was about to plow one of my guards into the wall, kick the other unconscious, and use that instant of distraction to slip my super spiffy magnetic cuff deactivators out of my pants pocket and into the meal slot of Heero’s cell so he could nullify his cuffs and – given two or three hours of dedication – the door’s magnetic lock.  To anyone watching, I was stumbling along, half asleep, totally harmless, completely—

_What the—!_

I blinked once, positive that my mind was playing tricks on me.  There was no way – _no way_ – I was actually watching Heero being escorted down the hall toward me.  The uniform he’d donned for infiltrating Barton’s army was gone and he was back in his regular duds: a T-shirt and jeans... that had _pockets._ Hell, I was _never_ this freakin’ lucky.  This had to be a mirage.  I was dreaming.  I was REM’s bitch.  That was the only explanation that made any sense whatsoever.

Still, it wasn’t like I was just gonna let this chance pass me by.  Even if I was imagining it, I could still knock the goons out and drop my secret gadgets into Heero’s cell.  I plodded onward.  Heero strode toward me, bracketed by his own minionic pair.  I made sure not to make it obvious that I’d noticed him until I was within range, and then…!

“You sonuvabitch!” I hissed, my head coming up suddenly.  I channeled every ounce of energy I had into being flaming pissed.  Before the goons could figure out what was going on, I freakin’ _launched_ myself at Heero.

Just, y’know, for the record, it’s freakin’ _hard_ to tackle someone and still keep your wrists together.  To aid in that, I aimed for his throat.  He twisted to the side so I missed and smashed my knuckles against the steel floor.  _Ow._

I didn’t waste time trying to articulate my beef with Heero.  That was what the rumor mill was for.  I was a little busy _re-_ tackling him to the ground after he’d shoved me off.  I slipped the magnetic lock picks into the back pocket of his jeans before he could roll away for a second time.

“Your ass is mine, you traitor!” I hollered.

Heero didn’t say anything.  Probably because he wasn’t sure what he _should_ say to back my play here.  That was fine.  We both knew I could talk enough for both of us.  And then some.

I was currently growling and spitting random words – Gundam, traitor, Deathscythe, sonuvabitch, war, rat bastard… you get the idea – as we did our best to punch each other stupid while rolling around on the damn floor.  (Except, in my case, I was also trying to keep my damn cuffs together.  Yes, _so_ much fun.)  It took the goons for-freakin’- _ever_ to pull us off each other.  (The hell, guys?  Were you placing Goddamn bets?)

I struggled just enough to be a pain-in-the-ass so they’d chuck me into my cell as quickly as possible.  I stumbled inside and, skidding to a halt, I swiveled back around and charged the damn door.  Of course it shut and locked before I got there, but I still beat my cuffed forearms against it, cursing the day Heero Yuy was born.

“When I get outta here, I’m gonna kick your ass, _partner!_   You can bet your Goddamn _ass_ on it!”

OK, hopefully three ‘ass’ references was gonna be enough for him to figure out that I’d left a present in his back pocket because, otherwise, I’d have to start using smoke signals or neon signs and that’d probably defeat the whole point of the covert passing-of-useful-stuff thing.

With a gusty sigh, I turned back to my room.  There was a toilet, a sink, and a pallet on a bunk.  That was all.  “Downgrades,” I muttered resentfully and flopped myself down on the sorry excuse for a bed.  Spying the camera unit tucked up over the door, I gave whoever was watching a nice, clear view of my middle finger.  “These accommodations are seriously lacking, people,” I informed my watchers.

Then I laid my head down and stared up at the ceiling.  It pissed me off – in a totally genuine way, not in a just-for-show way – that I _still_ didn’t know what the hell time it was.  When I had a chance, I was gonna have to mention to my good friend Hilde how nice it would have been to know that.  Not that it would have made the waiting any easier.  I figured they’d be taking Trowa back to the hangar anytime between six to eight hours from now for briefing and suiting up.  Someone would probably be by to collect me when Trowa insisted on me being present for his takeoff.  So, I totally had the time to catch some Z’s.

Did I?

Pshaw, right.

I did the next best thing: I helped myself to the (barely edible) military rations that had been left at the foot of the bed as I ran through the whole mission looking for weak points.  Now that I knew who and what we were (likely) dealing with, I could make some decent guesstimates about how the next twelve hours were gonna go.  But first, the mission summary as the situation stood now:

About five days ago, Howard received a transmission from someone inside the WEI building (i.e., me).  He probably shared this with Dekim thinking that the general was looking for evidence of a potential ally.  At this point, I wasn’t sure if that was even a blip on the man’s radar.  He seemed to be more focused on using our marriage (and the affection that state entails) against Trowa and me, threatening us into behaving the way he wanted us to.

I still wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing with Heero, Quatre, and Wufei.  Earlier, Heero might have been coming from the laboratory.  But, he might just as easily have been being led down the hall from an elevator at the opposite side of the floor.  Did Dekim just mean to keep all three of them locked up, ready to parade to the public?  Was he going to claim he’d caught us in the midst of some kind of plot to destroy the ESUN headquarters and only Trowa had escaped to make good on that plan or die trying?  Which, if Dekim had his way, he would.

Right, so that explanation was one possibility.  I couldn’t imagine a scenario in which the other guys would go along with lab experiments or training simulations, in essence _helping_ Dekim better-train his goons.  Or was it torture?  Was he trying to get more Gundams to add to his arsenal?  If the plans Hilde had uncovered were accurate, then he wouldn’t have time for that, not if the dolls were being shipped out with Deathscythe in about ten hours.  Well, less than that by now.

I hated the uncertainty of it all a lot more than I’d expected I would.  Normally, I’d be jazzed – practically _humming_ with anticipation – at the challenge before me, the minefield I was on the verge of breakdancing across.  Now it felt like I was giving myself an ulcer (or I would have been if those damn military rations hadn’t been lying in my stomach like a freakin’ lead weight).

I sighed out a long breath as the reason for my nervous tension came to me in a flash of insight.  “Trowa…” 

Back when I’d asked Trowa to marry me, I’d expected that the guys funding our “rescue” and providing sanctuary would want something from us.  I’d hoped to paint the biggest, shiniest target on _my_ forehead so it’d be me out there trying to figure out how to keep the hounds of war at bay from a disgustingly vulnerable public.  That’s what I’d hoped, but I’d been realistic enough to recognize the possibility of them choosing Trowa for their song and dance.  I’d always known it might come to this: me playing a supportive role while Trowa stuck his neck out and braced himself for the blade to fall.

So, I shouldn’t be surprised to find myself here – or, in this situation, I mean.  Things were playing out according to one of my plans.  I even had a shitload of contingencies, one of which I’d set in motion with that glomp-‘n’-grope in the hall not long ago.  I was quietly freaking out not because I lacked confidence in my plan or in Dekim’s predictability.  I was _sure_ of those things.

Which meant something else was shredding me from the inside out.  But, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what it was.

The answer still hadn’t come to me – not in a flash of insight or an impressive puff of scented smoke – by the time I heard official-sounding footsteps approaching the door to my cell.  I considered lying here a bit longer, flat on my back in defiance of their apparent control over me should my little detention den actually be their destination, but I figured it wouldn’t jive with the concerned spouse thing they were probably expecting.  I swung my legs over the side of the pallet – dislodging the assortment of wrappers which was all that was left of the rations they’d left for me however long ago (and with military rations, you never could tell exactly how “fresh” they were anyway) – and sat up just as the door opened.   The light from the hall stabbed through my eyeballs like dull butter knives.  _Yay._

“Hallelujah,” I grumbled, wincing helplessly into the light.  I thought about adding more than that.  A good half-dozen lines popped into my head and formed a mosh pit on the tip of my tongue.  Did I say any of them?  No.  No, I didn’t.  I wanted to get this party started.  I wanted to see Trowa.  I wanted to find out if we were dealing with the kind of back-stabbing, underhanded bastardness I thought we were.

There were six goons this time instead of two – huh, I guess my little _conversation_ with Heero had made the rounds after all – and nobody said a Goddamn thing as they marched me down the hall and into the elevator.  I rocked back and forth on my heels as it took us downward.  Our stop turned out to be same level as the second floor of the hangars.  That was promising.

They steered me down a familiar hall to an equally familiar door which, as it turned out, led to the observation deck which looked out at Deathscythe.  Ignoring my pseudo-military escort, I leaped over to the wall of windows – exhibiting enthusiasm I hadn’t even suspected I possessed in my current, sleep-deprived state – and peered, leaning up on my tiptoes like a damn kid at the freakin’ zoo, out into the cavernous room beyond.

Deathscythe was right there in-your-face, of course, but I only gave my Gundam a cursory glance.  I didn’t doubt that Dekim’s geek squad had tampered with my ol’ war buddy, but from this distance, there was no way in hell I’d be able to tell what they’d done just by eye-balling it.  My gaze searched, skimmed, and scanned until I located the tall, brown-haired, long-banged guy I was looking for.

_Whoa-damn!_

Trowa was suited up in one of those skin-tight zero G suits that we’d all worn during the final battle four years ago, but I was _sure_ he hadn’t looked this good aboard the Peace Million or I’d have accepted his offer of a game of chess to pass the time with a hellvalot more gusto.  I damn well appreciated the figure he cut now, though.  Whoo boy.

He was doubly sexy with that fierce scowl on his face, his lips pulled back in a snarl, and his entire body tensed to bristling as he laid down the law to someone.  The hapless victim of my husband’s impressive emoting clutched his clipboard like it was a Buster Shield.

Smirking, I leaned a hip against the window frame, settling in to enjoy the show.  But when the sacrificial nerd’s bespeckled gaze slid in my direction for the second time, his mouth quivering like he was working up the nerve to actually interrupt the Gundam pilot looming over him (and, can I just say… _DAMN!_   Who knew Trowa would ever be compelled to speak so forcefully and at such length about _anything!),_ I took pity on the poor schmuck in the lab coat and announced my presence.  Lifting my cuffed hands, I rapped my knuckles on the glass in an obnoxious rhythm Trowa was sure to recognize.

He did.

He freakin’ stopped _midsentence,_ glanced up, and then practically bolted up the stairs to the service platform nearest to my window.  He was still something like three meters away and a little below my position, but it was close enough for me to see that he was still all in one piece.

I scrambled for the window lock, shoving the panel aside and scowling at my escort when the dude’s meaty palm smacked down on the glass, preventing the gap from widening beyond a pathetic four inches.  The hell.  Did they think I was gonna dive onto the walkway?  Given my performance earlier outside the detention cells, I bet they did.

And, OK, maybe I would have.  Because seeing Trowa close up was damn tempting.  And deserving of my full attention.  Which I promptly returned to him.

“Whoa, just lookit you!” I teased cheekily, relief making me giddy.  I added a wolf whistle and saucy wink.  “There really is something about a guy in uniform.”

In another time and place, I might have gotten a blush for that.  Not now, however.  Trowa looked me over critically.  “Are you all right?”

I nodded.  “Oh, I’ve had my fill of military rations for, say, the next fifty-odd years, but otherwise, I can’t complain.”  I gave him a visual survey of my own.  “Did you get any sleep?”

He sighed.

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”  I flattened my palm against the glass and told him, “I’m gonna help you do this.  I promise.”  Even if I had to scream at him like a frickin’ alarm clock to keep him awake throughout the whole damn mission.

“I know you will.”  Trowa gave me one of his warm little smiles and, for that moment, it was just the two of us.

Then his gaze shifted from mine and I watched him study my frazzled, haphazardly cut hair and his expression iced over with an arctic chill.  I was damn glad he aimed it at the head minion instead of me.  “If Duo is prevented from communicating with me or removed from the communications deck at any point during my mission, I’ll go through any-and-everyone I have to in order to get to Dekim.  Is that clear?”

“Very,” the minion acknowledged grudgingly.

I briefly wondered if Dekim was even aware that I’d be in the comm. room at all.  Had Trowa somehow struck a bargain with the foot soldiers?  Oh, how I _burned_ to ask, but what I queried instead was—

“Speaking of which, what _is_ the mission?”  I hated to interrupt Trowa’s fume-and-growl which was giving me a severe case of the tingle-ies, but if I didn’t ask, it’d look strange.  At least to anyone with a functioning brain.

Trowa didn’t volunteer an answer even though I’d been asking _him._   That right there told me that Hilde’s info was accurate and Trowa had been sworn (or coerced) to secrecy on it because, obviously, a suicide mission was not the sort of news one would give their spouse.  Who might just go epic apeshit.

Head minion said, “Your task is to assist the pilot.  Nothing more.”

I harrumphed.  “I still think they should send me.  I _am_ the better pilot,” I bragged.

Although I expected Trowa to roll his eyes at me, he surprised me by grinning.  “Say that again in few hours.  I dare you.”

Oooh.  A _dare!_   This could be interesting.  “Yeah, OK, babe,” I relented.  “Let’s see whatcha got.”

The goon on my right shifted with purpose.  Ah, our time was up.  I met Trowa’s gaze, words crowding my throat, but I couldn’t say any of them.  From the look on his face, he felt the same.  So we parted in edgy silence.  I looked back over my shoulder the whole time as I was ushered toward the door.  Trowa remained where he was, following my progress with stiff shoulders and hands which clutched the metal railing until his knuckles turned white.

“I’m not gonna let you die,” I _yearned_ to say.  I was screaming the words in silence and I wondered if Trowa was not-saying much the same.

And then the door shut behind me and we were both committed to our roles.  I didn’t encounter Dekim during the trek to the communications hub.  I kind of expected he would be there, barking at his troops and posturing triumphantly, but he wasn’t.  Mariemeia was there, though and she smiled when she saw me… that is, until she noticed my missing braid and the Gundanium cuffs on my arms.

“Duo…?” she asked, clearly confused.

“Hey, Miss M.  How’s it goin’?”

I could see that my cheer just confused her further.  She turned to the chief goon and demanded, “Who cut off his braid?  And why is he wearing cuffs?”

“General Barton’s orders, miss,” the soldier replied uncomfortably.

Now it comes to it; Miss Mariemeia was beginning to notice how her grandfather’s vision of equality for the colonies wasn’t jiving with his actions.  “Don’t sweat it,” I interjected before she could issue an order of her own that would contradict the old man’s.  I wasn’t ready for her to rise up against him.  Not quite yet.  “I was so impressed by _your_ stylin’ hairdo there that I thought, ‘hey, short is where it’s at!’  Not sure it’s workin’ for me, though,” I mused, lifting my hands to tug at the short strands.  “Oh, and these—” I continued, indicating the cuffs.  “These dandy gizmos are a guaranteed cure for itchy elbows.  You get those, too, right?” I checked.

She giggled almost in spite of herself.  “No, I’m sorry.  I don’t.”

“Lu~ucky!” I replied, noticing the slight scowls on each goonish face in the room.  Maybe they were wondering why I’d pass up the opportunity to stir the pot.  Or maybe they were realizing – like Mariemeia – that Dekim was hiding certain aspects of the operation from his granddaughter.  Or maybe they had a collective case of indigestion.  Who the hell knew.

“Mr. Maxwell,” a guy sitting at a comm. unit interjected delicately.  “Mr… um, Barton is asking for you.”

“That’s my cue,” I said by way of excusing myself.  I picked up the offered headset and awkwardly slipped it on, mindful of keeping my weakened cuffs together, and eased down into the offered seat.  “Hey, babe.  Miss me?”

“You have to ask?” he retorted dryly.

I chuckled.

“Hey, keep the comedic routine down to a minimum!” I heard Hilde bark at me and I swiveled around, taking in the fact that she was damn well the officer-in-charge of the freakin’ comm. room.  How the hell had she managed that?  Had she paid off the minions not to mention the warm welcome she’d given us at the shuttle port on Earth?

I figured now was not the moment to reminisce with her about the time she’d risked her life to deliver data on Libra to us just before the final battle or that botched date to the circus.  (Speaking of which, how bizarre was that whole history, huh?  It kind of boggled my mind that here I was, married to the acrobat, the comrade who had blown up my Gundam and then lost his memories, and now I was taking orders from the girl I’d gone to see his show with on a date.  Holy hell that was messed up.)

I gave Hilde a half-assed, cocky salute.  “Yes, ma’am!”

She actually looked like she was considering shooting me in the knee caps, so I swiveled the hell back around and tried to look cowed.  It would not do to upset her hard-earned authority, not if she was gonna use it to help me out later.

“I’m going to assume you were not speaking to me just now,” Trowa informed me.

I bit down on a laugh.  “Most definitely not.”  Trowa was many things, but I’d long since noticed what he _wasn’t_ and female was definitely one of the latter.  “I’ve been ordered to cut the cute.”

“Ah.  So that’s what you call it.”

“Oh, man.  I am so not getting into it with you over my abundance of awesome Cute.”

“You’re giving it a capital letter, aren’t you?”

“You know me so well.”

“For better or worse.”

“Hey, have a little faith, babe!  I’ll getcha to Earth.  Cross my heart and hope to—”

 _“Don’t_ finish that sentence, Duo Maxwell.”

It was too bad Trowa couldn’t see me do that dorky locking-lips gesture thing.  Which reminded me…  “Hey, comm. dudes!  Don’t I get a monitor or somethin’ so I can see what’s going on in the cockpit?”

The guy next to me punched a button and the screen in front of me lit up with data read-outs.  OK, that hadn’t _quite_ been what I’d had in mind, but I wasn’t gonna waste time bitching about it.

“Uh, cool.”  I told Trowa, “I’ve got your readings on screen now, babe.”  I squinted at a range of numbers and informed him, “Looks like the balance needs to be recalibrated.  You’re wasting power already.”

“Let’s run it once I’m enroute.”

“Your command is my, um, well, cue, I guess,” I joked lamely.  Trowa humored me, though, with a snort laced with mock exasperation, so the effort wasn’t a total loss.

I waited – on pins and frickin’ needles – while Deathscythe and the dozens of mobile dolls began the launch sequence.  I endured the countdown, the wail of the hangar alarms as the massive doors crawled open, the roar of thrusters firing and then fading into the airless nothingness of space.  The fact that they weren’t even using a barge for transport told me just how close to Earth the colony was now.  Damn.  I wondered how soon Trowa would be hitting reentry.  Luckily, I had a valid reason for asking him once he was clear and essentially falling toward the planet beneath us.

“How much time do we have for tweaking the balance?” I asked, trying not to envy the ease with which he could wrap his hands around the controls in front of him.  I didn’t envy him the various booby traps keeping him company in the cockpit, though.  It actually kind of irritated me that I’d have to clean up the mess Dekim’s dorks had made.  And, to be perfectly honest with you, being irritated about picking up after someone else was preferable to contemplating what those little bundles of joy were meant to do if Trowa and I didn’t behave ourselves.

“Reentry in two hours, twenty minutes.”

I focused on that, pushing everything else from my mind.  “OK, I guess we’d better get on it, then.”

We did.  I let the laborious task of recalibrating a mobile suit’s equilibrium in zero G – which, lemme tell ya, is no easy feat – consume me so totally that I was only peripherally aware of Mariemeia being summoned by the general’s personal guards to accompany her grandfather to Earth.  I was a little torqued that Dekim seemed so damn confident of his plan that he didn’t even bother to stop by and gloat in person.

Trowa and I wrapped up the recalibration just as the sirens of the second launch (the one with Dekim and Mariemeia aboard a military transport shuttle, surrounded by their intimidating escort of no less than a hundred mobile suits) rang through the communications hub.  Now _that_ was my cue.

It was now or freakin’ never.

“Sounds like a pretty big party,” Trowa observed, hearing the commotion through my headset.

I took advantage of the noise to mutter as indistinctly as I dared, “Don’t freak out if we get disconnected for a minute, babe.  I’ll be right back.  I promise.”

There was a beat of silence over the comm. link as I looked up and searched out Hilde.  She was at a terminal on a raised platform overlooking the half dozen comm. stations and their respective operators.  When she raised her gaze, we shared a look.  I questioned.  She nodded.

“Copy that,” Trowa told me, sounding as if he were bracing for impact.

And then Hilde and I struck.

The Gundanium cuffs made a dull sound when I threw out both of my arms and bashed them into the temples of each guy sitting next to me.  They didn’t even squeak.  They just tumbled off their seats, one to the left and the other to the right, in silence.  In fact, it was so fast and the room was so noisy and they were all so focused on the readouts on their respective monitors that their comrades didn’t immediately notice the attack.  I moved through the room as quickly as I could, ghosting up behind the operators like I was in Deathscythe and sending them on an unscheduled trip to La-la Land.  The last guy put up a bit of a fight, but there was no point, not against Shinigami.  When he went down, he went down _hard._

The entire thing took about twenty seconds.  Oh, yeah.  I still had the Maxwell Magic.  Hell, I wasn’t even panting.  Dude.  Sweet.

It turns out that unmagnetized Gundanium cuffs are pretty awesome accessories.  “I am so keepin’ these bad boys!” I informed Hilde as she confiscated the radios and weapons from the pair of goon guards stationed by the door.

She would have rolled her eyes at me if she hadn’t been such a sucky multi-tasker.  “Come _on,_ Duo!  We don’t have all day!”

Didn’t I know it!  Even though Dekim was momentarily out of the picture, a threat still loomed: Trowa was sixteen minutes and some change away from his scheduled reentry, which he wasn’t gonna be able to put off without arousing suspicion from the general.

“Comm. still broadcasting?” I checked as Hilde tossed a couple sets of run-of-the-mill steel handcuffs my way.  I booked ass getting the six operators properly accessorized and secured to an out-of-the-way railing where they could, I dunno, swap knock-out stories when they eventually came to.

“Yup,” she confirmed.  “The barge is getting data stream only on the mobile dolls and Deathscythe.”

Whew!  That meant Dekim wouldn’t have “heard” any of the developments that had just occurred in this room.  “You still with me, baby?” I asked into the comm. link which – miraculously – had _not_ gotten knocked off my head in the tussle.

“I’m here.  Status?”

“Secure.  No injuries,” I informed him, sliding into the seat behind the main operating station, my fingers flying over the keys.  “Hilde, see what’s keepin’ Heero, will ya?”  Because, by my calculations, he should have gotten loose, sprung Quatre and Wufei, and been here already, trying to kick ass and steal all the glory for himself.

Since all the Dekim doofuses – or would that be “doofi”? – were securely restrained and all threats in the room neutralized, I started bringing up Deathscythe’s history of recently accessed files on the monitor while Hilde opened the comm. room door—

—and let out a giggle, of all damn things.

“Hey, Heero.  All you had to do was knock.”

I glanced over my shoulder.  “Sweet as!” I enthused.  “The cavalry has arrived.”  This last comment, I meant for Trowa.

“Operation Meteor?” Heero prompted, leaving off on trying to hotwire his way in and stepping up to the nearest communications unit.

“Goin’ full throttle, man.  What can you do about taking this iceberg off-line?”

“I’m on it.”

“Q-bean and Wufei?” I prompted.

“Handling the mobile dolls.”

“Copy that!” I crowed and passed on the report to Trowa.

“What if they can’t hack the system in time?” he replied somberly.

“That’s why you’re gonna give me the details on what we’re dealing with.”  Smart guy that he was, Trowa didn’t try to gainsay me.

“They’ve re-wired the self-destruct,” he reported as I scanned through files and commands.  “Dekim has sole, remote access to it.”  Well, that was bad news, but not unexpected.  I had a plan.  Sort of.

I couldn’t download actual copies of the files themselves in the time that remained to us, which was a damn shame, but if I could just isolate the codes that were meant to work against us, I could whip somethin’ up to shut them down.

“That’s not all they re-wired,” I replied, skimming through the computer’s recent activity logs.  The Nerds of Nasty hadn’t bothered to line the cockpit with C4 or some other explosive material.  Noooo, they’d filled up the emergency oxygen tank with freakin’ sarin gas.  I had to take my fingers off the keys, close my eyes, and swear _silently._

“Tell me,” Trowa said quietly.

Oh fuck.  Fuckity fuck fuck.  I took a deep breath.  Trowa wouldn’t panic, so there was no reason for _me_ to.  Besides, I’d made a promise and he was counting on me.

“They pumped your emergency air tank full of nerve gas,” I reported.  “I gotta lock it down.”

Trowa didn’t hesitate even though he knew what this would mean: he’d be fucked if he had a problem with the main tank.  “Do it.”

“And… shit, you’ve only got eight minutes until reentry,” I observed as I boogied my ass (metaphorically) through coding the commands that would permanently seal that gas up inside the tank until I could dispose of it safely later.

“Six minutes and forty seconds,” he updated me what felt like a blink of an eye later.

Oh, damn.  No pressure, right?  I had to stop and hunt for any hidden command prompts that I might inadvertently trigger, tiptoeing around a few warily.  That rat bastard had remote control of the freakin’ emergency support system!  The hell!  Simply blowing up Deathscythe wasn’t enough for the sonuvabitch?  Although, to be fair, it hadn’t been enough to kill Heero, had it?

I still hadn’t finished taking the emergency life support off-line, but what I had to say couldn’t wait any longer.  “Trowa baby?  Trust me?” I ventured shakily, hating what I was about to ask him to do, envying that he’d be the one to do it, scared spitless that I’d fuck up and he’d be… he’d be…!

When he answered my plea, his voice was calm, warm, peaceful.  “Tell me what you need, darling Duo.”

I swallowed and forced myself to follow through with the plan I’d made in the event that it came to this: a serious and as-yet-uncontrolled threat descending on the helpless people of Earth.  “Once you hit reentry and the comm. link fails—”  In other words, once he was invisible to Dekim.  “—take out as many mobile dolls as you can.”

His silence was telling.  If he failed to destroy all of them by the time they hit Brussels, people – innocent people – were gonna die.  But, given the extreme heat generated by falling through the Earth’s atmosphere, one wrong move could burn up Deathscythe and its pilot and leave me a widower.  Trowa couldn't wait until Brussels popped up on the horizon before he started to slice-‘n’-dice; it’d be too dangerous to destroy the ‘dolls so close to civilization.  The best time to do it was now… even though we weren’t ready to counter the fallout.  See, once reentry was complete and radio contact was re-established, Dekim would realize that he was missing some of his precious ‘dolls.  If _that_ happened, he’d blow Deathsycthe outta the sky with the push of a button.  Unless Quatre got his lily-white ass in gear and not only cracked the system but started feeding false data to Dekim’s new base of operations.  Oh my God… so many damn things could go wrong.  So, so, _so_ many damn things…

“I can do it,” he told me and I could hear his fingers dancing over the keys, inputting the data into the computer simulator.  I’d never used that feature much during the war, preferring the thrill of going in blind and being awesome, but Trowa wasn’t me.  He’d been raised a merc, and mercs didn’t take unnecessary risks.  I never thought I’d see the day when that thought would be a comforting one, but it was.  It so was.

With one last keystroke, I skimmed over the list of commands and then sent it off.  A moment later, I let out a breath as Deathscythe’s system status flashed on the screen:

**Emergency oxygen tank: off-line.**

**Remote access to all emergency systems: disabled.**

Fuck yeah!  Take that, you sonvabitch!

It was Trowa’s voice that reminded me to breathe again.  “Thank you.”

“I promised,” I answered simply.  And he was still only halfway to safety, so I got the hell back to work.

“The self-destruct is tied to the comm. link,” I told him.  “It’s too complicated for me to disable before blackout.”  Hell, I’d be coding like I’ve never coded before in order to pull this off by the time he finished passing through the Earth’s atmosphere.  “I’m gonna have to firewall the whole system.”  Which meant that I wasn’t going to be able to contact him after our comm. link reconnected and I snapped the firewall in place like a Goddamn Kevlar vest.  And I was gonna have to be pretty damn snappy about it, too.  I couldn’t afford to chit-chat with him and risk giving Dekim an opening.  So, bottom line?  I wouldn’t know his status, if he was injured or… whatever.  Unless Deathscythe crashed into the Earth.  In which case, the odds of Trowa being alive were vanishingly small.

But even knowing that much would be beyond my current means.  None of our Gundams would show up on traditional radar.  (Something about the alloy used in its construction making it “invisible” to traditional methods of long-range detection.  Don’t ask me; I don’t have the time to get into it right now.)  Unless Trowa “pinged” me his coordinates regularly (a process which used – you guessed it! – the communications system) then there was absolutely no way (short of a visual on video feed) to tell where the hell Deathscythe was, what condition it was in, and if there was any external damage that might translate into pilot injuries.

In short, I wasn’t gonna be able to tell if he’d made it through reentry safely until he was standing right in front of me.  Not that there was anything I could do about it if he _did_ encounter trouble, but Trowa was counting on me to watch his back.  So that’s what I’d do.  To the best of my abilities.  End of story.

Reassurances would have to come later.  In the meantime, I was gonna assume that he was still alive and still counting on me to keep a lid on the what-if’s.

“Rendezvous point or destination?” Trowa asked as I started lining up the command prompts I’d need for shielding him from Dekim’s wrath.

“Heavyarms,” I answered.  “Get to your Gundam, power up, and head for Brussels.  Heero, Quatre, and Wufei will meet you there.  We’ve got a megalomaniac to stop.”

“And you?”

“Send me the coordinates for where you’re probably gonna abandon Deathscythe.  I’ll get my hands on a shuttle—”  One damn way or another.  “—pick up my suit, and meet up with you guys near the ESUN building.”

“You won’t have a functioning comm. system until Dekim and his army have been neutralized.”

“Yeah.”  It’d be kinda suicidal to turn it back on for as long as Dekim had his finger poised over the big red button of doom.

“Duo…”

“That’s my final offer, baby.  Take it or _take_ it.”

“Hold on while I flip a coin.”

I snorted.  “Gimme the coordinates, Trowa.”

He did.

We only had about a minute of airtime left.  Damn, I sure could use a hand with firewalling an entire damn system, but I was on my own here.  I glanced at Heero.  He was still busy with disabling the colony thrusters, making them unresponsive to whatever command Dekim might send their way so that X18999 would _not_ make Operation Meteor a reality.  I hated it, but saving the whole damn planet had to come first here.

I glanced at Hilde.  She was on the horn with someone.  I wasn’t sure who, but it sounded damn important.  Hell, she was probably making sure nobody mustered the troops and got in the way of Trowa and a Beam Scythe of certain renown.  I’d confirm that later.

There was still no word from Quatre or Wufei on the mobile doll issue.  I prayed as I have never prayed before that they’d been briefed on the situation and knew just what kind of tightrope we were all walking.  I prayed they got in and generated misleading data that masked our subterfuge.  Hilde’d have a job of it just sending false data on Deathscythe off to Dekim’s battle cruiser, so I couldn’t ask her to cover the ‘dolls, _too…_

“It’s going to be all right,” Trowa told me.

I laughed and, yeah, it came out a bit manic.  Even for me.  “That’s what I love about you, baby.”

“Oh?  You find my voice ogle-worthy now?”

“I’ve got news for you, pal-y.  You can’t ogle someone’s voice.”  Although I was doing my damnedest to try.

“Hm,” he said.  And then: “So what _do_ you love about me?”

 _Everything,_ I didn’t say.  “You—” _always land on your feet._   “You—” _have faith in me._   “You—”

And then it didn’t matter what I wanted to say, what I couldn’t say, what I _should_ say.  Static hissed at me through the headset.  He’d just started reentry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “ESUN” stands for the Earth Sphere United Nation. Sorry, I’ve been calling it the United Earth Sphere up until this point. I guess Duo didn’t give enough of a care to use the new name. (In the beginning of the series, the Earth and colonies were called the United Earth Sphere Allied Nations… I think.)
> 
> On the topic of Trowa snarling at the poor, helpless scientist guy, I just have to say that even the most mild-mannered people can snap and when they lose their temper on your behalf and proceed to rip somebody a new one in your defense, it is the sexiest thing ever. EVER.
> 
> As I re-watched the series recently, I noticed in the first few episodes that on at least one occasion, the Alliance couldn’t get any readings on the Gundam that was not only within range but attacking. So, I’m guessing they’re invisible to traditional radar. Or something equally cool. So I’m thinking that’s why Dekim has Trowa on such a short leash.
> 
> The “What do you love about me?” and the “You—you—“ vaguely reminds me of the very end of the movie French Kiss, which I am unashamed to say that I love with all my heart.


	12. Poster Boys

# Chapter 12: Poster Boys

_This ain’t a scene – it’s a Goddamn arms race…_

 

My fingers had never moved so damn fast in my life.  I may have been muttering something – possibly someone’s name – over and over again like a mantra, but I couldn’t tell you for sure.  Ask Hilde; I’m sure she’d know.  Mostly, I was just trying to save my husband’s life.

As Trowa plummeted through the Earth’s atmosphere, slicing his way through as many dolls as he could while _not_ getting incinerated along with my mobile suit (God, it was the Libra incident all over again, right?), I pounded away at the keyboard like every stroke was a single footstep and I was racing against time – which I was – and I’d never had so much to lose before.

_Oh, God._

It took me too long – too damn freakin’ long! – just to lay the foundation for the firewall I’d promised Trowa.  And now only two minutes and ten seconds were left until the earliest communications window opened – damnitalltohellandback! – at which time Dekim would do a scan, count his toys, and figure out our betrayal (unless Quatre managed to get the false data feed ready by then, in which case, everything would appear to be status quo, but if he _didn’t…_ ) _then_ – with a simple push of a button – Dekim could trigger Deathscythe to self-destruct and there was nothing – _nuthin’!_ – I’d be able to do to stop it!

But, no.  I had Trowa’s back.  He was my partner and this was _my_ Goddamn mission and I was _not_ going to let anything happen to him.  Nothing was going to happen.  Nothing nothing nothing nothing—!

I freakin’ _attacked_ that frickin’ comm. system like it owed me a blood debt and I was out to collect.  Hell yeah.  Nobody built Goddamn firewalls like Duo Maxwell.  Knowing who I was protecting on the other side of that defensive barrier gave me a level of focus that was _just_ stronger that the _oh-shit-oh-fuck-oh-please!_ roaring through my head.   Hell, I couldn’t even tell you if I was even _breathing_ during that whole blackout period (which could last as little as three minutes or as long as forever if the Worst happened).

I heard voices around me: Heero’s, Wufei’s, Hilde’s.  I got the distinct impression that someone was looking over my shoulder and someone else was talking about me.  Maybe Hilde was briefing the guys on the situation.  Whatever.  I was busy.  I had to be ready to transmit the _moment_ Trowa’s comm. link came back on-line – and it _would_ come back on-line; he _would_ be alive and OK and everything was gonna be fine because I was gonna beat Dekim to the punch and get this code written before—!

YES!  THERE!  GOTCHA, YOU BASTARD!

I slammed the last key much harder than necessary, but I didn’t care.  My finger hovered over the Enter key, waiting for that blip in the static, for the _off-line_ message to stop blinking and reconnect.  I was ready.  This was gonna work!

_Please be OK, baby…_

Again, I felt the presence of someone at my shoulder.  Normally, it’d bug the hell outta me, but it was a comfort now.  I was pretty sure the person reading through my coding was Heero and I was pretty sure he’d tell me if I’d fucked something up.  Hell, he’d dump my ass outta the Goddamn chair and rewrite it himself.

“All clear?” I asked because it felt like my chest was gonna explode if I didn’t relieve some of the pressure.

“Affirmative,” he answered.  “Colony thrusters are off-line and the guidance system is locked in a safe Earth orbit.”

“Knew you could do it, buddy,” I told him and then the devil in me made me tease, “Thought it’d take you half the time, though.”

I felt him glare at me.  Oh yeah.  I’d pay for that later.  “You tell Quatre that Trowa’s taking out as many ‘dolls as he can?”

“Yes.  He and Wufei are putting together false readings to feed to General Barton.”

The static was still hissing in my ear and I had nuthin’ else better to do, so I asked, “Has Hilde contacted the Preventers and let ‘em know what’s coming?”

“I did,” she told me and I could hear that she was standing behind my other shoulder.  “I also asked them to pull up some communications recordings from the war to broadcast just in case we have to pull a battle out of thin air.”

“Damn,” I mused, both tickled and irritated that I hadn’t had to issue those orders at all.  “Was my plan that damn obvious?”

“Maybe we’re all as equally brilliant as you,” Hilde retorted cheekily.

Heero snorted.

And _that_ was when I heard the first hiccup in the white noise.  “Hilde, you reading any ‘dolls?”

Another hiccup.  My finger hovered over the Enter key.

“No… yes!  Forty-seven on long-range radar!”

Before she even finished speaking, I’d pounded the Enter key and the cursor on the monitor jumped to a new line, blinking, blinking, blinking…

_C’mon c’mon c’mon C’MON DAMMIT C’MON…!_

And then new text winked at me on the screen.

**Access granted.**

**Setup complete.**

**Communications system status: locked down.**

Oh my God.  I just freakin’ slumped in my chair and tried not to end up in a puddle of relief on the damn floor.  Heero’s hand came down on my shoulder, holding my ass in my seat.

“Good work,” he said.

I blinked, a little startled at the praise, and then I snorted.  “The hell, Yuy.  It’s my Goddamn mission.  I oughtta be the one telling _you_ that.”

“Guys!” Hilde squealed with glee.  “Trowa’s still taking out the ‘dolls!  Their numbers are going down!  Forty-two… thirty-nine…”

Why, hello, Relief.  Where the hell have you been, you lazy ass?  Late much?

While I was waiting for Relief to deliver his stuttering excuses, Heero leaned over me, called up a video link, and suddenly Quatre’s face was there.  “Status!” Heero barked, jarring me back to the here and now.

The bastard.  I’d always known he’d take over the whole freakin’ mission as soon as he got his foot in the damn door.

Quatre reported even as he worked the keyboard in front of him, “Currently transmitting false data on mobile doll coordinates, altitude, velocity…”  He looked up and grinned.  “It’s all taken care of, guys.”

He might be a sadist, but I loved him anyway.

 _“Now_ can I radio the Peace Million and let them know we’re secure here?” Hilde asked impatiently.  The smile she was struggling against was a dead giveaway that she was acting, though.

“Uh… yeah,” I replied, turning back to the keyboard and calling up the previous log of Deathscythe’s stats.  I needed to fudge an algorithm to generate more so it’d look like Trowa was on his way to Brussels.  “How far out are they?”

She grinned.  “Not far.”  Turning back to the mic, Hilde told whoever was on the receiving end of the transmission, “You can bring the ship around now.  Docking bay two-oh-niner-alpha.”

“They damn well better have enough shuttles on board,” I groused.

With the algorithm churning out fake data for Hilde to transmit to the general’s crew, there was no need for me to stick around.  Yup, my work here was done.  I climbed to my feet and suddenly I felt both shaky and bursting with energy.  Like I’d had over a hundred cups of coffee about an hour ago and I was on the verge of crashing hard.

By way of explanation, I told Hilde, “Heero, Quatre, Wufei, and I have got to get to Earth and intercept Dekim in Brussels.”  I turned to Heero.  “Can you get to Wing that fast?”  Yes, Dekim and his manned mobile suit force were considerably slower than a Gundam and an army of mobile dolls, but that didn’t mean we could stop for a beer or anything now that X18999 was secure and nobody was gonna be blowing up Deathscythe or gassing its pilot.

“No problem,” Heero replied.  “Send Howard’s best comm. people up here.  After I brief them, I’ll be ready to go.”

“Okie dokie.  I’ll see what I can do.”  I stepped up to Hilde and gave her another fast, hard hug.  “You were awesome, Hilde,” I told her.

“Yeah, I know.”

I barked out a laugh.  “Don’t leave me in suspense too long.  I’m gonna want details when all this is over.”

“You’ll have ‘em.  Now get out of here, buddy-boy.”

I boogied.  I think I ran all the way down the corridor, bounced up and down on my feet in the elevator, and sprinted for the docking bay.  To tell you the truth, the entire trip was a blur.  I assume I hauled ass, but my head was so full of what-if’s and if-then’s that I was a little surprised to find myself standing next to Howard on the arrival deck with no memory of even stumbling through the bay doors.

Freaky.

“Hey, Duo!” he greeted, turning toward me with a big smile and looking as if he’d spent the last two days kickin’ back and chillin’ out on the deck of the Sweepers’ barge somewhere in the tropics.  His smile wavered for a second and, even though I couldn’t see his eyes behind those damn shades of his, I just _knew_ he was taking a good, long look at my hacked-off hair.

“Yo, geezer,” I replied, charging forward into a topic that did _not_ revolve around explanations.  I just did _not_ freakin’ feel like it.  Y’know?  “You gonna give us a hand savin’ the damn day, again?”

“Christ!” he wheezed on a laugh.  “You’ve turned into the most _hazardous_ client I’ve ever had, kid.”

Yeah, knowing me was guaranteed to make your life more, um, _interesting._   Usually, not in a good way.  Hell, there were several epitaphs out there that ought to read: _“Friend of Duo Maxwell.  Life was short but interesting.”_  Wincing away from that harsh reality, I interrogated, “Just tell me how many shuttles you’ve got on that giant turkey of yours.”

“Oh, a fair few.  Courier ships only, though,” he replied.  Despite the words, he was grinning.  I grinned back.  Courier ships might be damn small and gimped by limited fuel cell capacity, but they were fast and they’d get us where we needed to go.

“Can you have four of ‘em ready for launch in—”  I trailed off as I spun around, seeking out the nearest displayed clock.

“Relax, Duo,” Howard told me in that damn mellow voice that makes him sound perpetually stoned.  “Already taken care of.”

“Is that so?” I retorted, his words poking at my memory: _“Don’t worry, Duo.  I’ll look after Deathscythe…”_   I gave him my Fierce Maxwell Gaze.  “Like you took care of Deathscythe?”

Howard raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.  “Take that one up with Hilde.  It was her idea to ‘recruit’ me until I gave up the Gundam and got you guys outta that place—”

“Before she exposed you as a spy or saboteur or some-odd shit to get promoted to Chief of Comms?”

“Heh.  Somethin’ like that.  Worked like a charm, too.”  He tucked his chin down and gave me a look over the rim of his trademark shades.  “Here you are.”

Yeah, here I was.  Waiting for a shuttle.  Wondering if my husband was still alive…

“Upgraded your Gundam a couple of years back,” he continued and _that_ got my attention.  With a lazy gesture, he motioned me over to the nearest mechanics bay and started rummaging through the tools.  “New Hyper Jammers and the shoulder armor lifts away so you can use the Beam Deflector Barriers – you’ve heard of those, right?”

“Uh, those nifty little devices that hover around my suit, creating an impenetrable electric field?” I guessed in a tone that would have been mocking if I weren’t so damn impressed.

Howard chuckled.  “Right.  Gotcha a set o’ those.”  He waved at my still-cuffed wrists impatiently until I held them out so he could get to work on unlocking the damn things.  “Installed a cloaking system and added a Buster Rocket to the ‘Scythe itself.  Quadruple cutting power.  That should come in handy when you meet up with Dekim Barton!”

Man, did I have the awesomest suit-savvy buddy or _what?_   I’m not sayin’ I was forgiving him for going along with Hilde’s plan, but if Trowa made it through this all right, I’d give it serious thought.  Still, those were a helluvalotta new toys.  “Damn, Howie.  You thought of everything, huh?”

He tilted his head to the side and then, as if remembering something unpleasant, he grimaced.  “I didn’t think of those military rations.”

“Hah!  Amen, brother.”

We lapsed into silence, the metallic clinks and clanks of the locking mechanism marking the seconds.  As I waited for the damn things to give it the hell up and unclamp from around my forearms, I ruminated on how all-encompassing my mission had turned out to be, how many people from different groups and organizations were involved… and would _become_ involved.

“Damn.  I guess we can expect a visit from the Preventers when Dekim is dealt with,” I mused and Howard laughed out loud.

I blinked at him for a solid second before I griped, “What am I missing here, man?  Clue me in.”

He informed me, “You’ve been working with a Preventer agent pretty much the whole time, kid!”

“Huh?”

“You think that Schbeiker girl would hide in those junkyard scrap piles when her friends needed her?”

The penny dropped.  “Damn.  Really?”

Howard nodded.  “She’s got a badge an’ everything.  Hell, she set up this op.”  He gestured grandly, encompassing the colony around us.  “Joining up with Mariemeia’s army, winning Dekim Barton’s trust, helping to extract you guys…”

Whoa.  Hilde was hardcore.  I was having a time-and-a-freakin’-half of it digesting this new and awesomely-improved version of my old friend and ally.  But, blinking through all that and following the trail of logic, I summed up, “So Une knows everything.  And she actually approved…?”  I couldn’t say the words.  They were just too damn fantastic.

Howard picked up the thread of my thought and reeled it out.  “Yup, she approved assisting with the escape of five war criminals.”

At that moment, the cuffs surrendered and Howard made a happy little sound that was squashed by the racket caused when the things clattered to the floor.  We both left them right where they’d fallen.  Howard wiped the tools down, though, and put them back precisely where he’d gotten them.

“Thanks,” I muttered, brain still numb with shock.

“No problem.”

I followed him back over to the docking station controls, mulling over what he’d said.  No matter which angle I looked at it from, I just could not freakin’ comprehend that Une would be involved, willingly and benignly, in _anything_ associated with the Gundam pilots.

“A helping hand from the one and only Lady Une,” I finally said.  “Pardon me if I find that difficult to believe.”  Did she seriously not have enough firepower and people to throw at Dekim Barton?  Or were the five of us expendable?  No way was she actually trying to give us a chance to exonerate ourselves.  Just… no way.  We were talkin’ about _Une,_ here!

“Believe it or not, Duo,” Howard replied, “if you guys can wrap up Dekim and deliver him to her in a pretty, pink bow, I’m bettin’ you’ll get your freedom.”

 _Damn._   The very idea of Une – former Coronel Une of OZ – helping _us…!_  

My laugh was a little hysterical and Howard just put a hand on my shoulder until I wound down.  That happy moment coincided nicely with the blare of proximity alarms as the Peace Million drew close enough to dock.  I gave Howard a hand sealing off the arrivals deck and then decompressing the bay.  The doors cranked open with painful slowness and the behemoth of a ship itself inched its way inside.

“God _damn,”_ I moaned.  “Could the pilot go any freakin’ slower?”

Howard let me bitch out my anxiety.  The objectives we’d met and ones still before us _and_ the potential consequences of them all – it was really all too much to take in and we weren’t even done yet.  Fuck.  Ever have that feeling like you have too much to do with yourself and even though you know where to start, all you can do is stare blankly into an incomprehensible future?  Yeah, I was in that place and time alternately ticked by with grotesque slowness and zoomed by like blasts from space-calibrated Buster Rifles.

When I blinked myself out of my own head, I was treated to the sight of Trowa’s self-appointed sister, Cathy, barreling out of the airlock quarantine straight for us.  I actually took a step back.  Shit.  Was she gonna kick my ass for marrying her, um, brother?  Or choke news of him outta me?  I scrutinized her for any sign that she was carrying those knives she was so good at tossing around.

“Howard!” she hollered, crashing right into his outstretched arms.  “You stupid old man!  What were you _thinking_ getting yourself _captured!?_   Do you have any idea how _worried_ I was!?  You—you— _you—!”_

Her incomplete sentence reminded me of my parting words to Trowa and it both amused and disturbed me that I seemed to have some kind of speech impediment in common with Catherine Bloom.

And then suddenly I was gaping at the sight of Howard kissing Trowa’s fierce sister.  On the lips.  _Passionately._

Whoa, buddy.  Too much information.

I was still blinking, trying to either digest or deny (or both at the same time, which might explain why I wasn’t managing much more than a blank stare), when Cathy leaned back, slapped Howard on his skinny arm, and turned to me.

Shit.  I’d totally wasted my chance to run and freakin’ dive for cover.

“Duo!” she enthused, reaching for me and pressing a quick kiss to my cheek.  “I’m so happy to see you!”

“Uh, yeah.  Um.  Me, uh, too,” I coughed out.

“You’re so darling.  It’s obvious what Trowa sees in you.”

Er, it was?  Wait.  No.  Trowa and I weren’t really married—er, I mean we _were_ married but it was all for show and she obviously didn’t know that but—!

“Um,” I began.

“Welcome to the family,” she said, wrapping an arm around Howard’s waist and I just kind of boggled at the implication.  “Now, what are you still doing here?  Don’t you have a madman to deal with?”

“Er, yes, ma’am!” I retorted and got my ass the hell off the arrival deck.  I did _not_ look back to see how Howard and Cathy were, uh, enjoying their reunion.  I barreled aboard the Peace Million, shouted greetings to a couple of guys I recognized, shouted some more about gettin’ guys up to the colony comm. room for briefing, and then shouted for someone to get my Goddamn shuttle ready.  I think, somewhere in there, I may have said _please._   Possibly.

As I slid into the pilot’s seat and freakin’ _zoomed_ through the preflight checklist, Heero’s voice sounded over the comm. channel.

“Don’t be reckless, Duo.”

I glared at the speaker.  “The hell, man!  I—”

“It’s been years since you’ve piloted,” Wufei reminded me.

I stuck my tongue out at him.  Too bad he couldn’t see it.  The courier shuttles didn’t have a video screen.  Basic comm. only.

“Take it easy, Duo,” Quatre urged, voice warm and caring, and I felt something hard and burning within me soften and calm just a bit.  “Be careful.  For Trowa’s sake.”

“Dammit, guys,” I snarled, fighting against their collective effort to talk sense into me when I most definitely did _not_ need it, _thank you very damn much._   “Do you think I’m gonna hold my breath an’ freakin’ _jump_ down to Earth?”

“No, of course not,” Quatre placated me.  But, since Quatre was the only one of us who actually did any placating, I guess that could only be expected.

“We’ll be right behind you,” Heero promised.

“Rendezvous in Brussels,” Wufei confirmed.

“Yeah, just don’t forget to bring your game!” I quipped, grinning as I imagined Heero’s grunt, Quatre’s exasperated smile, and Wufei’s irritated glare.  Before anybody tried to chew my ass for not taking this seriously, I metaphorically bit my tongue and told them, “I’ll be on this frequency.  Reestablish contact when you’re Earth-bound.  Duo over and out.”

So, I launched ahead of the others, the coordinates Trowa had sent me before communications blackout already locked into the courier shuttle’s navigation system.  After reentry, I knew exactly where I was going. 

Although I knew it was too soon, I used the secondary radio to scan both our old wartime frequency and the channel we’d been using earlier.  I wondered if Dekim even knew I’d been sitting in the colony’s damn comm. room, chatting with Trowa.  Maybe not.  I’d gotten the impression from Trowa that he’d made some kind of deal with the goons themselves.

Still, I wasn’t terribly concerned.  I was pretty sure my new-and-improved-friend Hilde had it all under control.  The girl really was one in about ten billion.  I was gonna have to see about making sure her significant other properly appreciated that.

Imagining that inevitable meeting took the edge off while I waited for Trowa to make contact.  Even though I knew it’d be something like another hour or two (or possibly _more)_ before he landed, powered up Heavyarms, and had access to his suit’s working comm. system, I was still listening and listening _hard._

For the record, I really hate waiting.  The courier shuttle didn’t even have good long-range sensors, so I couldn’t follow Dekim’s progress toward Brussels.  I tapped into the nearest media satellite and tuned in to the local news broadcast there, following along with what _wasn’t_ happening around the ESUN building.  It sounded like the Preventers had all moved in and taken up positions around the government headquarters, but nobody had been able to establish contact with anyone inside since the building had been locked down something like twenty-eight hours ago.  I could imagine how restless the brass must be getting as the situation dragged on.

Of course, now that Preventer Agent Hilde Schbeiker had filled in her bosses, they all knew what was supposed to happen in T-minus four hours when Dekim was due to arrive.  And nobody wanted to rock the boat until they had enough backup to deal with a frickin’ _army_ of manned mobile suits.

Damn.  I wondered if there was any hope at all that we’d all come outta this just fine and dandy.  Not just me an’ the guys, but _everyone._   Was there a chance that no one in the ESUN headquarters had been harmed?  Could we keep Dekim’s forces from firing on the city?  Was it inevitable that civilians were gonna get hurt?  That soldiers were gonna needlessly lose their lives?

I tortured myself with thoughts along those lines for a bit until Heero’s voice called me back from the dark possibilities I was contemplating.  “This is Heero Yuy, en route.”

“Roger that.  Welcome to the rat race,” I replied with a little too much panache.

“Any word from Trowa yet?”

I had to take a moment for a deep breath before I responded.  “Not yet.”

“There will be.”  I hated how he could sound so damn sure.  Or maybe I envied him that.  Probably the latter, I admitted to myself with a wince.

Wufei and Quatre joined us about fifteen minutes later and gave us the low-down on the mobile doll deal.  “Howard’s guys are going to keep generating misleading data.  For all intents and purposes, it’s going to look like the mobile dolls have landed in Brussels and are attacking the city,” Quatre reported.

Wufei gave us the other side of the story.  “The Preventers have asked for assistance from the media which has agreed to air stock footage from the war consistent with a mobile doll attack.”

Well.  OK, then.  “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a nice setup for an ambush, eh?” I commented.  All we had to do was just get our asses there as fast as humanly (and Gundam-ly) possible.

“We?” Heero replied and, by the tone of his voice, I knew where this was going.  “You are _not_ entering a battle in a civilian area with a tank of sarin gas and no communications capabilities,” he dictated.

Huh.  I guess someone had been listening in on a certain private conversation after all!  I almost punched out the speaker in an effort to bust up his face long-distance for that.  “I will take care of the gas, but I _will_ be there an’ there ain’t nuthin’ you can do to stop me, Yuy.”

“That is a double negative,” Wufei pointed out and I was _this_ freakin’ close to screaming.  I ground my teeth, counted to three, and ignored him.  Damn smartass.

“I will be in Brussels and I will stay the hell outta your way.”

“No, you—”

“Will turn this Goddamn comm. link off if you keep arguing with me, pal.”  And I meant it.

He shut up.

The silence was blissful until I realized that the one voice I wanted – no, _needed_ to hear – was still not speaking to me.  _Damnitall, Trowa!  Where the hell are you!?_

And then I laughed at myself: for a second there, I’d kinda sounded like Cathy.  Hah!

The thought amused me for about three seconds and then I was back to not screaming at the silence around me.  With a sigh, I gave in and turned back to the mic.  “So, Heero.  How come they had you outta your cell?”

It’s kinda fun when you can _hear_ other people’s attention sharpen to a razor-thin point.  Quatre and Wufei didn’t say anything but I could tell they were _vitally_ curious about this.  Clearly, it was the first they’d heard of it.

Heero grunted.  “Ah.  I told them I’d cooperate by helping test their mobile suit simulator.”

“Yuy!” Wufei barked.  “They were gathering data for the purpose of improving their training program!”

“I knew that,” Heero retorted irritably.  Smirking, I sat back and enjoyed the show.  “I wanted the practice.”

Oooh, now Heero was gonna try and convince us that he’d been using _them_ – and I’m not saying he hadn’t been – but he couldn’t fool me.  Always looking for a foothold in a situation, that was our Heero.  Always reaching for the high ground, always scouting for weaknesses, always lookin’ out for number one.  That was probably why I’d both hated and admired him so much during the war.

It startled me a bit to realize that I didn’t feel that way about him anymore.  Now I was just… mildly irritated and mostly exasperated.  It was freakin’ odd to realize that I was married to the guy I admired the most now.  Trowa was a survivor.  He made the hard choices and he followed through.  That took guts.  Hell, that took more than guts – it took _fire._

I listened with half an ear as Quatre jumped in with both feet and started tearing Heero up one side and down the other for giving the enemy – the still _undefeated_ enemy – access to the kind of data a highly trained soldier like Heero could provide.  If any of Dekim’s troops decided to follow in the wannabe-warlord’s footsteps, they’d make a better pilot-training program and, next time around, the threat to the peace would be all that much harder to stop.

Heero argued back that he hadn’t been trying all that hard to beat their damn simulations, so it wouldn’t matter.  Wufei bitched a bit about how stupid he was.  Quatre had to interject a few times before the two of them ended up deciding to leave Dekim to us while they went off and battled for honor or some such stupid thing.  I wouldn’t put it past them.  I kept my mouth shut and let Quatre handle it.  Mostly, I just continued scanning the airwaves with the backup radio.

Nuthin’.

Eventually, I took pity on Heero and butted the hell in just before I started reentry – damn, but Wufei and Quatre were still riding his ass like horsemen of the freakin’ apocalypse! – and asked, “How the hell did you guys get outta your cells, anyway?  Heero, that little present I slipped you in the hall come in handy?”

The silence from Quatre and Wufei was definitely contrite.  And, somehow, Heero’s spoke of smugness.  The fact that I could hear emotions in static-laced silence probably indicated unfavorable things about my mental health, but whatever.

“Starting reentry.  See ya on the other side, guys.”

Heero, Quatre, and Wufei all copied that.  I listened for it right up until flames started licking at the windows, testing the strength of the little shuttle’s heat shield, but I didn’t hear Trowa’s acknowledgement.   _Damnitall, baby, you better make contact before I land!_   Because I was gonna kick his ass for leavin’ me hangin’ like this if he didn’t.

When Hilde had given us her most recent report on the mobile dolls, all of them had been destroyed so that seemed to indicate that Trowa was alive (or had been _then)._   But I had no idea if he’d been injured during reentry (and if so, how badly) or what his status was now.  It belatedly occurred to me that the guys had dumped an argument on the airwaves because they were trying to distract me from the fact that no one knew if Trowa had made it all the way through to landing.

Huh.  I spent the remaining minutes of my communications blackout trying to decide if the guys were coddling me (and therefore deserved to have Shinigami pay them a visit) or if they were damn awesome.  A question for the ages.

I gradually brought the courier shuttle out of its plunge and, as I did so, the communications radio started spitting static at me.  I confirmed my safe reentry to Heero, Quatre, and Wufei.  But, once all the copy-that’s were said and awkward silence started to settle in, a slightly different sound introduced itself to the airwaves.  A new static tone fizzed out from the speaker and I held my breath, waiting, wondering…  I clutched the yoke like a man on the verge of falling overboard, _hoping…_

“This is Trowa Barton.  Do you read me?”

Oh boy did I ever!  My whoop of joy would have echoed in the cockpit if it had actually burst out of my mouth.  I was biting my lip too hard for it to escape.  The sheer power of it exploded upward from my chest and pushed tears of reaction from my eyes.

“Barton!  Status!” Wufei barked.  I would have said something similar, but I was too busy restraining myself from, I dunno, kissing the damn comm. speaker or something.

“Moving out in Heavyarms now.  All systems operational.”

“He meant for you to give us your injury report,” Heero interjected drolly.

“Fine.  Some bruising from the harness.  Nothing serious.”

“Trowa!  That harness wasn’t designed for you.  You could have internal injuries!”

“I know when I’m experiencing internal bleeding, Quatre,” he replied.  “Don’t worry.”

Everyone got quiet after that which meant it was probably my turn to talk.  I just couldn’t think of anything to say with the other guys listening in.  I muted my mic on the main radio and dialed up the old war frequency on the secondary comm. unit – I was betting Hilde wasn’t listening in on this one – and I asked nervously, “Trowa?  You read me?”

A moment later, I heard his voice over our “private” channel.  “Duo.  I read you.”

I freakin’ slumped in the pilot’s seat.  If not for the yoke in my hands and the harness over my chest, I would have just melted onto the floor.  _Damn._   I wanted to ask if he was really OK, but I didn’t think he’d change his story now, even if there was something to tell.  I took all my anxiety and did something constructive with it.  Like—

“Freakin’ took you long enough!”

“I was waiting for an engraved invitation.”

“On that fancy vellum shit?”

“Naturally.”

I snorted.

“Your suit isn’t the only one with elaborate security procedures to deal with,” he explained.

Ah.  I wondered what kind of insanity he’d installed to prevent people from ransacking his Gundam, but I knew better than to ask.  “Speaking of which, is there anything left of Deathscythe for me to pilot?”

“I was gentle.”

“Hah.  I’ll bet.  A hundred and twelve mobile dolls and not a scratch on my buddy?”

“So you _were_ watching.”

“Uh, actually, I hope you made a recording for posterity.  When I blinked, I missed it.”

“A likely story.  But yes, there’s a recording.  I thought it might be needful.”

“So I can gleefully point out everything you did wrong?”

“You just try it, darling.”  He sounded like he really wanted me to, too.

I was about to set a date and a time for this much-anticipated event, but then Trowa suddenly said, “Hold that thought,” and I listened as he switched frequencies to talk to all of us.  I wondered why the others were being so quiet all of a sudden.  Heh.  They were probably on a separate frequency, gossiping about Trowa and me behind our backs.

“I’m still over two hours outside of Brussels – no sign of Dekim or his forces – but I’ll start transmitting sector scans.”

“Don’t engage Dekim alone,” Heero ordered.

Trowa didn’t dignify that with a response.

“Sorry,” Trowa said just to me-and-only-me on our alternate frequency.  “What were you about to demand?”

“Demand!” I squawked.  “What makes you think I was gonna demand anything, pal?”

“You’re very… demanding.”

“Me?  No way, babe.  You must have me confused with your other husband.  I’m the personification of laidback unconcern.”

“Says the guy who’s out to add my soul to his personal collection.”

“Is it possible to have a collection of one?”

“You don’t have similar designs on other souls?”

“I’m a plus-one-soul kind of guy.”

“And what would you do with it if you had it?” he teased, bringing back the memory of suit fittings and a kiss in the men’s department of a crappy general store in purgatory.

I smirked.  “Teach it to dance.”

“I can dance.”

“Hah!”

“You doubt me?”

“You walk tightropes, play tag with ferocious lions, pilot mobile suits in battle like it’s a damn ballet… there’s no way you can dance, too.  Nobody’s that perfect.”

“Perfect?”

“Well, all that stuff is at the top of _my_ short list.  I’d have it all done and notched if it weren’t for this damn cat dander allergy of mine.”

“Allergy?” he blatantly doubted.

“Which reminds me!  If we end up getting a cat, it’s gonna have to be one of those freaky, hairless ones.  We can name it Alien Refugee and call it ‘Al’ for short.”

Trowa laughed.  Y’know, that sound never ceased to amaze me.  I was already flyin’ high on relief that he was OK and now I had _this_ reward to bolster me further.  I felt like I could freakin’ take on the universe bare-fuckin’-handed!

“You are insane,” he told me in a tone traditionally reserved for three very different words.

“Yeah,” I agreed amicably, my own tone warming and softening.  “But you like me that way.”

“I do.”  He didn’t even try to deny it.  Good man.

We bantered a bit more and I could not articulate how welcome that _normalcy_ was.  Bit by bit, my manic energy calmed and fizzled out, ceding to much-needed control.  We listened as, one by one, the others went through reentry and then set off on separate courses to retrieve their Gundams.

“Hey, listen,” I told Trowa.  He was still a ways out from his objective, but I was nearing the coordinates he’d given me.  “You know I’ve gotta go to Brussels, right?”

He sighed.  “I know.”

“If there’s any juice left in the Hyper Jammers, I’m gonna move in behind Dekim’s position.  If, y’know, you need me to take him down or supply distraction, we need a signal.”

He thought for a moment before saying, “I’ll flash the lights in Heavyarms’ eyes.”

“OK.”

“Duo… be careful.  We’re not at war anymore.”

“Why does everyone think I’m gonna charge in blindly, Scythe-swinging?”

“That’s your style, Shinigami.”

“Hah!  That’s rich coming from The Silencer.  How many rounds are you packin’ anyway?”

“Point taken.”

I chuckled.

“What’s your ETA on those coordinates?” he asked.

“Approaching now.”

He coached me over to a good landing area and then I was touching down, tearing up the abandoned field with the landing gear and hoping Howard was gonna get reimbursed from the Preventers because I sure as hell didn’t have the cash for these kinds of repairs.  Wincing, I sent off the landing coordinates to the Peace Million for pick up even as I broadcasted my safe landing to the others.  I signed off from the main comm. channel before they could get started in on me again.  No way was I sitting this one out.  No freakin’ way.

“Hey, baby?” I asked, hesitating to cut the engines.

“Yes?”

There were no less than a million questions swirling around in my brain, scrambling my thoughts.  I spent a solid minute trying to convince them to just get the hell in line.  It didn’t work.  I gave up on trying to prioritize them and heaved a useless sigh.  Since the mission wasn’t over with yet, I made myself focus on that.  The rest would have to come later.  “No lost innocents.  No matter what.”

“No matter what,” he agreed.  “You’ll see me afterwards.”

It was the closest thing to a promise he could make considering the situation we were all heading into, and I knew what he was telling me: he wasn’t gonna take the kind of risks he had during the war.  He was gonna make it through this and we’d… we’d… hell, I dunno what we’d do or be, but we’d be seeing each other.  It wasn’t much, but it was almost more than I could handle at this point.

“I damn well better,” I replied.  “Duo, out.”  And then I cut the radio and shut off the shuttle engine before I could say something lame.  I had a suit to locate and a baddie to sneak up on.  Whoo yeah!

It wasn’t hard to locate Deathscythe.  I stumbled out of the courier shuttle and there my buddy was, just kickin’ back under the leafy canopy of the nearby forest.  For the first time in _four long years,_ I was able to just stand next to ‘Scythe, put my hand on its Gundanium alloy ankle and smile.  “Hope you’re not tired of the action yet, buddy-boy, because the fun is just beginning.”

I didn’t hang around waiting for a response.  Hell, d’ya think I’m nuts or something?  I knew my Gundam wasn’t gonna freakin’ talk _back_ to me!  I hauled my ass up to the cockpit and got myself seated.  It was a simple matter of voice recognition and retina and palm scans since the start-up sequence had already been keyed in.  In less than five minutes, I was staring at my fuel gauge, calculating how far it would get me.  It’d get me to Brussels and, at this point, that was all I cared about.

I launched.

 _Whoo baby!_   I whooped.  I laughed.  I had freakin’ tears streaming down my face.  I was piloting again.  Whoa damn.  I’d never thought – well, OK, I’d _thought_ – but I’d never _hoped_ I’d be sitting here again, strapped into the pilot’s seat, thrusters at my fingertips, the Earth zooming by as I blazed a trail across the sky.  They could lock me up forever after this and I wouldn’t care.  I’d have this memory of freedom.  It’d be enough to get me through.

_Even if you had to give up Trowa, too?_

My heart stopped beating.  The muscles in my chest squeezed tight as if to cradle it, hold it together to keep it from falling to pieces.  Damn.  This is what I get for letting myself think beyond the moment.  I could not afford this kinda shit now.  Not _now._

“I’ve got your back,” I promised even though there was no one to hear it.  Trowa was counting on me.  Hell, all the guys were.  _Focus, Maxwell!_   I did.

I dropped the emergency oxygen tank – still full of sarin gas – in the Baltic Sea as I carved a flight path toward Brussels.  I committed the dump coordinates to memory.  (Well, I couldn’t just _leave_ it there, could I?  It wouldn’t be safe in the long run.  Plus, Une might need it as evidence against Dekim if this circus actually went to trial.)  And then I was shakin’ ass toward the ESUN headquarters and whatever scene awaited me there.

It burned me up that I had no eyes or ears here in Deathscythe.  Hell, I didn’t even have email.  I had sensor scans, terrain maps, microphone, video and infrared of the immediate vicinity _only,_ but I had no radio, television, or digital broadcast access.  Damn.  It was a wonder Trowa was so freakin’ calm after piloting this thing for as long as he had without getting _any_ data on whether or not the world was still frickin’ turning.

Which reminded me…

I cued up the cockpit video recorder just to check and see if he really had…  Yes!  There was a recent and fairly large file saved in the recordings folder.  I’d have to check that puppy out later.  Y’know, so I could give him some pointers.

I smirked.  Hah!  As if Trowa needed any pointers from an amateur like me.  He’d been pretty much raised inside a mobile suit.  Hell, he’d cut down dozens of mobile dolls during reentry and Deathscythe had taken virtually zero damage.  (I’d noticed some scorch marks, but the suit’s integrity was at 100%, which was just freakin’ amazing.)  If anything, I’d learn a thing or two from _him,_ but how much conversation time could we squeeze out of “Gee, thanks, I learned bunches from your awesome mad piloting skills, man”?  Not much.  And I _wanted_ to have an excuse – as many excuses as I could drum up – to talk to him again, to keep that connection we’d forged open between us.  The thought of parting ways and only seeing him at annual get-togethers or public events…  (And wasn’t that a hell of a thing to contemplate!  Would Trowa, inveterate loner that he was, even bother to show up to one of those damn fancy powwows?)  Well, I didn’t want that.  He was my husband, dammit, and I… I…

 _The mission, Maxwell!_ Shinigami reminded me cheerfully and I – somewhat less cheerfully – gritted my teeth and got the hell on with doing my damn job.  I kept an eye on the clock, hating the fact that it was taking me the same amount of time that it had Trowa to reach my destination; once upon a time, Deathscythe had been the fastest of all our Gundams, but I guess the upgrades had added a bit of weight which was slowing my suit down.  To counter that, I let myself fall into my pilot’s zone and the passage of time sort of blew past me like a March wind.

When my proximity alarmed beeped, I checked to make sure and, yes, the Hyper Jammers were still jamming away and the cloaking system was on-line, making me invisible to all but the naked eye and video cameras, and then only if I did a dance or fell flat on my face.  As I zoomed over the suburbs of Brussels, I powered up all the screens in Deathscythe, giving myself a one-hundred-and-eighty degree view of the area in front of me.  Before I got within visual range of the ESUN building, I cut the thrusters, dropped down low and, using the high-rise apartment complexes and corporate office buildings as cover, weaved my way toward ground zero.

This was the tricky part.  I had to make sure I found myself in a good position _behind_ enemy lines.  And I had to make sure I stayed the hell outta everyone’s way if this little arms race exploded into a fight.  I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

The external sensors _finally_ started picking up Dekim’s forces and I moved in with more confidence.

I spotted Wing’s distinctive outline as I metaphorically tiptoed between two glass-and-steel monstrosities.  It looked like he’d taken up position directly in front of the main gates of the ESUN offices.  Heh.  Offices.  Well, I guess they had offices inside that fancy-schmancy mansion thing.  Along with a couple of art galleries, a grand hall, a ballroom, a five-star restaurant kitchen, and… well, you get the idea.

Sandrock was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Heavyarms not far away and I had to beat back the flare of jealousy – that was _my_ post beside Trowa, not Quatre’s! – but I squashed it with a wave of thankfulness.  I did not want Trowa to stand there and face Dekim alone.  I knew it couldn’t be _me_ on his flank, but I was glad someone we both trusted was there.

Wufei’s Gundam was harder to spot.  He was positioned along the line of Preventers vehicles surrounding the perimeter of the estate.  I had to scoot a few blocks down before I could see what they were up against.  When I finally had a clear shot—

_Damn!_

What I saw confirmed the readout on my screen.  It was like a freakin’ _field_ of mobile suits.  I instantly regretted not being able to study their schematics prior to this moment: they looked bulky as hell – from an older design, perhaps – but so damned _solid_ that I wondered if a swarm of them really could take down a Gundam.  Dekim certainly had enough drones if it came to that.

The scene before me looked like a kind of stalemate.  There was a good chance people were talking over loudspeakers rather than comm. links.  I flipped on the out-suit microphone. 

Luck was with me.

“—not getting past us, Dekim,” Heero’s voice boomed out across the tableau.  From that, I gathered that I wasn’t all that late to the festivities after all.  Sweet.

“How dare you threaten the Foreign Minister and her aides!” Dekim screeched back.  Ah, so that’s how he was gonna play it.  His next words confirmed what I was thinking.  “Command your men to vacate the premises immediately, leaving the hostages unharmed, or we will open fire!”

That was so not gonna happen.  Not in my lifetime.

“If you open fire, you’ll kill everyone!” Quatre informed him in a voice that was as authoritative as it was heartfelt.  “Innocent people, included!”

“We will not negotiate with terrorists!” Dekim roared back and, although he was a smarmy sonuvabitch, I had to admire how he was rolling with the punches here.  It was clear no one was gonna be able to get through to the guy; he was totally off his rocker.  But if we could reach Mariemeia – she was presumably with him somewhere in this mess – and if we could turn her against her grandfather, create just an instant of doubt…!

Goddamnitalltohell!  Why hadn’t I _told_ the other guys this part of my plan?!  Here, now, we had a _golden_ opportunity to open the girl’s eyes and make her _see_ what the old man was doing was _wrong_ and the army would probably follow her damn lead _if only—!_

“Miss Mariemeia Khushrenada,” a familiar voice rang out, echoing in the tense silence.  “My name is Chang Wufei.”

Whoa.  No way Wufei had the same damn idea as me.  Just no frickin’ way.  I mean – _Wufei!?_   _The hell!?_   When did he get all observant and shit?  Or was he meditating inside Altron and freakin’ channeling his psychic energies?

He continued, “I knew your father, Treize Khushrenada.  We fought together more than once.”

Hah.  Nice way to gloss over the messy truth there.

“Because of that, I can tell you this: he _never_ would have allowed civilian casualties in the name of peace and equality.  Battle is meant to be an honorable conflict between foes, between soldiers.”

I held off on cheering as I moved into position.  I could sense that whatever Wufei “Wielder of the Word-as-Weapon” Chang was about to say was gonna rip a hole in Dekim’s logic.  It was a no-brainer how the old guy was gonna react: like a desperate man.  On my screen, Heavyarms shifted, readying for an offensive.

“Who is pointing weapons at the people now, Miss Khushrenada?  Who is threatening the lives of innocents?”  He paused, presumably, to give her a moment to work that through.  “What your grandfather seeks is wrong.  It will never lead to true freedom for the colonies.”

“Lies!” Dekim roared.  Wufei ignored him.  I moved in a bit closer.  Hell, I was a frickin’ _sneeze_ away from the edge of the lines of drones.  It occurred to me then that I probably should have taken the new cloaking system for a test drive _before_ this moment.  Oh well.

Wufei spoke over Dekim’s furious and ongoing slandering, “You can end this, Miss Khushrenada.  You can save lives here and now.  Make your father proud.”

Wow.  That was… pretty damn good.  The Preventers, the pilots, the damn army crowding the streets of downtown Brussels all seemed to hold their breath.  Impossibly, the fate of hundreds – if not thousands – of lives was resting on the reaction of a twelve-year-old girl.

Man.  That’s fucked up.

There was a small hiss – like the sound of a door sliding open – and I had to inch my way a bit to the north in order to get a view of what was going on.  I watched as Mariemeia stepped out of an armored car – or _tank_ more like – which was on the front line and flanked by a pair of heavily armed, manned suits.  One of which was likely piloted by the general himself.

She walked out into the empty street between the Gundams and her grandfather’s army and stopped when she was almost exactly half way between the two.  Her personal guard hovered uncertainly by the still-open door of the tank.  They were probably envisioning the end of their careers even if their side ended up coming out on top.  I was pretty sure Dekim was fuming right now.  Or maybe scowling mightily, trying to whip up a Plan B.

I kept one eye on Mariemeia and one eye on the manned suits at her back as she paused, lifted a megaphone to her mouth and then turned to face the men and women who were prepared to give their lives to make her a queen.

“Stop.  Everyone, lower your weapons.”

 _“What?!”_ Dekim shouted.  I found it telling that the old buzzard had waited to be sure she wasn’t about to give everyone a rallying battle cry before objecting.  Opportunistic old crackpot.  “Get back in the car _immediately!”_

“No!” she replied.  “I don’t want people to be hurt.  I don’t want to attack.  I don’t want to be _queen!”_

Ooh, now she’d done it.  I could sense the buildup in the tension.  It thickened the air.  The mobile suits in Barton’s army seemed frozen.  Weapons that had been held at the ready were audibly powered down.  It was as I’d surmised: the army followed Miss Mariemeia first and foremost.

“You stupid child!” Dekim bellowed and I tightened my fingers around Deathscythe’s controls.  I knew which suit he was using – he’d talked enough to give me an accurate reading on his position – but I wasn’t going in until I was _sure_ he’d hit his breaking point.

“Get out of my way!”  This he commanded as he lifted a stripped-down version of a Buster Rifle and aimed it directly over his granddaughter’s unprotected head, lining up Wing and the government building beyond in his sights.  It glowed with power; it crackled with energy.  Still, I had to be _sure_ it wasn’t an act.

“Sir—!” a neighboring mobile suit pilot objected.

It was the final straw.  Dekim broke.  He swung at his own henchman, backhanding the suit and sending it stumbling into the one beside it.  Then he was grasping the Buster Rifle in both giant, metal hands, fitting a finger around the trigger—

Heero, Trowa, Quatre, Wufei, the Preventers… they were all on the wrong side of the situation to do anything to stop the sonuvabitch from firing that blast.  I, on the other hand, was _not._

“Oh no you don’t, you—!”  Even as the words came screaming out of me, I was in motion.  I leaped to the front line, Beam Scythe arcing down, slicing cleanly through the gun as I knocked Dekim’s mobile suit back with a timely kick and then I was falling, crouching, curling my Gundam around the young girl standing right smack dab in the center of the blast radius.

And a blast there was.

I didn’t have time to shut off the outside mic before the cockpit was ringing with the booming, eardrum-incinerating _BANG!_ of the rifle exploding at full-charge.  I flinched, riding it out as it freakin’ echoed for Goddamn _ever._

And then… silence.  Silence so profound, I was sure I was deaf.  But no.  No, I could hear my own panting breaths.  The silence was external.  Everyone was in shock.

Lying awkwardly on my side in Deathscythe, which was also sprawled on its side in the middle of the Goddamn government plaza, I rotated the screen focus to behind me.  Where Dekim’s suit had stood there was now a smoking rubble of twisted metal.  Amazingly, the cockpit appeared to be intact, a bit melted, but it was entirely possible that Dekim was still alive in there, reeling from the explosion.

Several suits had stumbled and even tumbled to the ground, but it looked like the damage was minimal.  I keyed my mic as I called up the camera angle that would let me know how Mariemeia, shielded by the bulk of my suit, had fared.  “Miss M?  Are you all right?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Heavyarms take half a step forward.  Sandrock lifted an arm to block his path, however, and I was grateful.  We were nearly there.  _Nearly there!_

“I’m fine, Mr. Max—  Duo.”

I sighed out a breath in relief.  “That’s good.”  I was still checking over her image just to make sure, but she really did seem all right.  “Miss M, I gotta ask you for a favor.”

“What is it?”

“Can you call the soldiers inside the building – the ones with Relena and her staff – and ask them to surrender?”

I watched as she nodded and then moved to stand.  She was dirty and dusty and her hair was windblown, but she had never looked more regal.  She would have made a good queen, I decided, but I was glad she wasn’t.  She was too young to have that kind of responsibility thrust upon her.  That Dekim was willing to saddle his own granddaughter with such a weight bespoke of profound selfishness on his part.  Someday, I hoped she’d realize that.

“There’s no need!” a new voice announced and I had to resort to Deathscythe’s sensors to trace the origin back to the ESUN’s public address speakers.  “We are releasing the hostages, unharmed, and will be exiting the building peacefully.”

As the Preventers moved in to intercept the crowd of people soon to be emerging from the building, I lay there grinning.  Damn.  Had we done it?  Had we really stopped a hostile coup d’état in its tracks?

My repeated scans of both the government building and the army behind me confirmed it again and again no matter how many times I looked: weapons were laid down, soldiers were emerging from their suits with arms raised in surrender, hostages were shuffling out of the Brussels HQ looking shell shocked.

Hell.  After all the drama… that had been too damn easy.

My musings were interrupted by someone calling my name over the speaker system.  “Duo?  Duo!”  I grinned as I recognized this voice.

Focusing on the woman approaching Deathscythe, I took in the sight of the Foreign Minister in a suit that looked a little wrinkled and stale.  “Relena!” I greeted.  “Long time no see!”

She smiled.  “Speak for yourself, Duo Maxwell.”

Ah, I guess that was true.  She wasn’t seeing much of the actual me, was she?  Well, maybe after the dust settled a bit more, we’d all get together and get caught up. 

“Relena, if you’d take Miss M and move her a few steps back, I’d like to pick myself up off the asphalt.”

“Oh!  Certainly.”

I had to shake my head in amazement as I watched Relena smile gently at her would-be successor, offer her hand, and then lead Treize’s daughter to a safe distance so I could get Deathscythe back on its feet.  I didn’t power down or step out of the cockpit: Who knew what kind of crazy wackos were still simmering with indignation in their suits around here?  Hell, all the guys and I stood guard as people swarmed the area.  I did, however, have one observation to make.

“Y’know, guys…” I mused aloud to the whole damn world, “yet again, I arrive just in time to save the damsel from serious peril.  I’m sensing a definite career path for me, here!”

I think Relena replied, saying something like, “And a fine career it will be, Duo!” but, honestly, I wasn’t really paying attention to her.  I was busy listening to the laughter I was _sure_ I could hear coming from Heavyarm’s out-suit speakers and grinning my ass off.

 _Yeah…_ I didn’t say.  _We did it, Trowa baby.  We did it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The specs on Deathscythe were taken from gundam.wikia.com
> 
> Duo’s comment about saving the damsel is referring to the time (at the beginning of the series) when he stopped Heero from shooting (and possibly killing) Relena. (And a whole lotta thanks he got for it, too.) Oh, and there was also a time in the series when he pushed Hilde’s Leo suit out of the way of oncoming fire. So, yeah. A definite career path there.


	13. Closing Arguments

# Chapter 13: Closing Arguments

_Cut it loose and watch me work the room…_

 

That single, euphoric moment of near victory lasted about as long as it takes for you to wake up from a dream.

One minute, I was on top of the world.  The next, I was shaking like a Goddamn leaf.  Holy fuck.  I’d played my hand.  I’d called it.  My cards were on the table and now I was gonna find out if the mission – if the whole damn gamble – had paid off.  Was Une really on our side or were we all just expendable soldiers to her?  A convenient resource intended to serve a greater agenda?  And even if the Director of the Preventers was willing to give us a pass, were the people of Earth gonna forgive us our acts of aggression during the war?  Were they gonna let us make our own futures now?

Eventually, I’d have to emerge from the cockpit and face the music.  I knew this.  It wasn’t gonna make letting go of the controls any easier, though.  I could tell.

And then, damn, I was gonna have to navigate my way through debriefing.  Oh, fun on wheels.  Whoo hoo.  I hated debriefing in general.  It was pure torture to sit there in a little plastic chair with the adrenaline zooming-whooshing-whirling through you, going over the minutiae of the mission again and again and _again_.  Only this time, it was gonna be more like an interrogation and while the other guys could honestly lay claim to ignorance, I was not so fortunate.  Dammit, I was _not_ lookin’ forward to this.  Couldn’t put it off, though.  I mean, hell, when Une – freakin’ _Une_ – gets on the megaphone and orders you to haul your ass out of her crime scene and into a designated hangar, you go.

So, I went.  I waved farewell to Mariemeria and Relena, wondering if I’d really be sitting down for a chat with them later or if I’d be watching them on TV from my little cell-for-one.

I clutched the yoke hard enough to make my hands ache and my shoulders tremble.  Shit.  I was so close to winning.  I was also just as close to losing.  It was painful just thinking about it.

_“If you can’t tell me, then don’t think about it.”_

The memory of Trowa’s words hit me like a sledge hammer to the solar plexus.  Oh, God.  There was so damn much bundled up in that single memory that I just kind of imploded for a moment.

As if I didn’t have enough on my damn mind, now I had to figure out what I was gonna do about Trowa, about our marriage, about all that… _whatever_ that was between us.

 _You know what happens to people who get too close,_ Shinigami reminded me with obscene cheer and I had to stop what I was doing for a moment and close my eyes and brace myself against the snarling tornado of frickin’ _everything_ tearing through me.  Shit, but that hurt!  I fought against it with waning strength, all the while knowing it was a losing battle.

I thought of Trowa, that soft tone he uses when he’s making a promise, that look in his eyes when he’s seeing through all the bullshit and shedding light on the dark, dusty corners of my soul.  What was I gonna do without him?  It was a frightening question, terrifying because of what it implied.  Did I not know how to make my own way anymore?  Had I lost that part of myself somewhere along the line?  Was it even now lying on an interrogation room table along with my severed braid somewhere in Earth orbit?

Fuck.  I was not ready to deal with this shit.  Hell, I wasn’t even ready to face the future despite the fact that the future was all I’ve been working towards for the last four damn years; suddenly, the future was here and it was too damn soon.  I needed just a little more past.  “Hair of the dog” – isn’t that what they say?

Choking on my own frustration and rage and I-don’t-know-what-else – scowling fiercely the whole time – I focused on getting Deathscythe secured.  Some geek types were probably going to be sorting out the self-destruct issue.  Some salvage types would be retrieving the tank of toxic gas I’d sunk in the Baltic for safe keeping.  Hell, some bureaucratic types might be confiscating my Gundam and I’d never see it again.  I should have cared more about all that than I actually did.  Deathscythe and the resolution of Dekim’s attempted takeover should have been sizable blips on my radar.  But – you wanna hear somethin’ crazy? – all I could really think about, the only recognizable oasis in the churning mess of my own mind, was Trowa, seeing him _in person_ and making _sure_ he was all right and… and, hell, I dunno what else.

The hangar wasn’t far, but with my disconnected comm. system to contend with, it took the workers a lot longer to talk me into the correct bay.  There was much arm-waving and even some of those funny, day-glo orange sticks involved.  I would have been chuckling manically if I’d thought I could manage it without puking.

The future was just outside, just there on the flip side of Deathscythe’s damn hatch.  The future was _out there,_ but so was Trowa.  No wonder I had an upset stomach.  My need to see him was duking it out with my fear of the fallout and I had the feeling that, even if I hid out in this cockpit until Hell froze over, there wouldn’t be a clear-cut victor.

Somewhere in the middle of all that emoting, they got me docked.  I powered down as slowly as I dared, my hands shaking.  I was exhausted.  Done.  Utterly outta gas.  I was scared but I was anxious (for the aforementioned reasons).  I had to sit there and just breathe for a whole damn minute before I could summon up the concentration to contend with the damn harness.  Part of me didn’t want to open the hatch and face the world.  For four damn years, I’d had reality pre-packaged and force-fed to me.  Now there was nuthin’ between me and the real deal.

_Quatre’s not gonna be able to bail our asses outta jail this time._

I don’t know where that thought came from – some dark, cynical place that doesn’t see much daylight – but it kinda knocked me outta my funk.  The hell!  The plan had damn well worked.  And, even if it hadn’t…

But, no.  It had _worked._   We had Hilde, the freakin’ Preventers, Howard and the Sweepers and frickin’ _Catherine Bloom_ on our side!  Maybe I was just suddenly too tired to be excited about it.  Maybe I just needed…  I just needed to be _OK_ first, before I dealt with all that.

Well, if that was the order, then it sure as shit wasn’t gonna happen in here.  I hit the hatch release and, taking in the sight of the other Gundams lined up beside mine, I grabbed for the pilot’s tether.  _Goin’ down!  Next stop: concrete of the free world, pokey medical checks, and endless debriefings…!_

Down I went, looking – without trying too hard because what would I do if I didn’t _see_ him? – for a certain pilot of Heavyarms.  But my gaze zoomed right to him as if we were magnetically connected, and I knew I shouldn’t have doubted that he’d be here, putting off the medical team until I got my shit together and showed my stupid face.

The moment I saw him standing there looking up at me from between Deathscythe’s big, black feet, the implosion that had jumpstarted all my doubts just exploded into something too big to fit in my body.  I had to strangle the steel wire in my hands to keep still as I rode it down to where Trowa was waiting.

He was still zipped up in his zero G suit and his expression was so achingly urgent that I forgot that our marriage was only supposed to be a means to an end.  Hell, maybe I _wanted_ to forget that little factoid.  As soon as I was within range, I freakin’ jumped off the damn winch cable and _glomped_ him.  I guess the fictional state of our marriage must have slipped Trowa’s mind, too, because he damn well picked me up, leaning back until my toes were dragging on the concrete floor, and buried his face in my neck.  I clutched at him and listened as he just panted breath after sobbing breath against my sweaty skin.

“Oh God, baby!  Are you really OK?” I rambled mindlessly.  It was, hands down, the dumbest question I’d ever asked.  I mean, hell, there was no way he’d be able to lift me up like this if he were seriously injured.  No way.

I was _yea_ close to wrapping my legs around his hips, but no, he was probably just as exhausted as I was and I did not want to topple us to the ground, giving us both injuries _now._   I settled for hooking one heel around the back of his calf and just held the hell on.

“Any injuries?” he rasped and I shook my head.

“Fine.  Totally fine.”  And then I was leaning back, my chin bumping his, my hair brushing against his, and then our lips touched.  I gasped at the sensation and Trowa didn’t waste any time making the most of the opportunity.  He kissed me as if he could fuse our mouths together from sheer force of will.  I groaned.

His arms loosened by a fraction of an inch around me and I slid back down to my feet slowly, feeling every contour of his body against mine thanks to the tight, thin, hi-tech-insulated fabric of his suit.  Oh, fuck.  Where was a handy supply closet when you needed one, right?

Just fifteen minutes.  That was all I was asking for.  Just fifteen minutes alone with Trowa and I’d have that damn suit stripped down to his thighs and my hands would be piloting him into that mythical final frontier.  (And no, I was _not_ talking about the depths of space, for your information.)

He purred softly as the kiss softened and became a series of brief, soft touches.  His hands moved over my back, one questing down to my hip and the other gathering my now-short hair between his splayed fingers as he cradled the back of my head.  With a last nibble of my lower lip, he sighed and tilted his forehead against mine.

I had so much I wanted to say, but I just didn’t have the words.  Trowa’s tiny, relieved smile charmed me into mesmerized silence.  He let out a long breath and I just stared at his closed eyelids, at the peace in his expression.  “We did it,” I said, just to watch him open his luminous eyes.

His lashes lifted and I was treated to such a gentle yet intent gaze that I actually felt something deep within me flutter in response.  _“You_ did,” he argued.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” I scolded softly, grinning and giving him a gentle shake.

He didn’t answer with words.  He nudged his lips against mine again and, this time, my tongue was the more adventurous, charting and caressing.  And I had no intention of ever, ever, _ever_ stopping.  Well, not until the laws of physics got in the way.

_“Ahem…!”_

The sound of a throat being cleared – and probably _not_ for the first time – breached the barrier of my focus.  I ignored it.  I was busy.  My mouth was busy.  Hell, my hands were busy, busy tracing the line Trowa’s jaw and dancing along the length of his backbone from the base of his spine upward.

_“AHEM!”_

Dammit.  I was of half a mind to shoo the damned interloper away with a rude gesture.  Trowa took the choice out of my hands by pulling away and whispering against my lips, “Later.”

I glanced from his heavy-lidded, desire-drowned gaze to his tender-looking lips and agreed, “Yeah.”

I took a deep breath (which would have been more centering and steadying if it hadn’t been so completely Trowa-scented) and, stepping back, I ran my hand down Trowa’s arm until our fingers tangled and interlaced.  Only then did I turn to confront the compulsive throat clearer.

“Trowa.  Duo,” Sally Po greeted, smiling broadly.

“The hell, woman.  If you need a throat lozenge, write yourself a prescription.”

Trowa snorted.

Sally gave us a mockingly haughty look.  “If I were you, I’d cooperate with the people who are responsible for signing off on your clean bill of health.  Do you know how many uncomfortable medical procedures there are that you could be potentially scheduled for?”

“I’m sure _you_ do,” I groused, playing along.  My mask of humor clicked into place and I was so damn relieved that I could _think_ again that I didn’t even bother to point out the fact that there was no such thing as a _comfortable_ medical procedure.

“Hm,” she agreed.

I let my irritation – both real and just-for-show – evaporate as I stepped forward, bringing Trowa with me, to give her shoulder a squeeze in greeting.  “You look lovely as always, Doctor Po.”

“So it’s to be charm, is it?  That sort of thing doesn’t work on me,” she informed me, but then she winked.  “Come on, Duo, Trowa.  We’ll get you cleared and sent off to debriefing.”

“Oh, joy,” I intoned.  “Debriefing.  I’ve been so looking forward to it.”

She chuckled.  “Well, the sooner it’s dealt with, the sooner you can, er, get back to other things.”

She had a point.

Eventually, I had to let go of Trowa’s hand.  When Sally nodded authoritatively to two separate examination rooms, there really wasn’t much choice.  I sat through the whole blood pressure and thermometer bit.  I gritted my teeth through the urine and blood sample bit, and then I was shown into a lovely interrogation room.

Well, OK, it was a private conference room, but seriously.  There was no point in sugarcoating what the next item on today’s agenda was gonna be.

Not two seconds after the door shut behind me and I’d plopped my ass down, I felt my second wind coming on, refueling my internal boosters like I was on a caffeine IV.  “C’mon, let’s just get this over with,” I grumped impatiently.  I would have been swiveling my chair back and forth if it’d had that kind of capabilities.  Unfortunately, it didn’t.

Sighing, I waited for my tormentor to arrive and wondered if I still had the knack for looking just dumb enough when I was asked tricky questions.  I soon found out.

“It’s a remarkable coincidence that the Winner Enterprises building experienced a hazardous chemical situation precisely when it did,” Director Une observed about twenty minutes after her arrival.  We’d gone over the timeline of events front-wards, backwards, and polka-style.  I figured now was the part where I got down and breakdanced _or else._

“Is it?” I queried with a blink and a slight frown.  I was trying to convince myself that it was a good sign that Une was conducting this interview herself.  “Trying” being the operative word, here.

Her brows arched.  “You don’t find it odd that the Sweepers were not only standing by but also fully prepared, right down to their choice of hazmat suits?”

Since I really had no idea why Howard had shown up in the gear he’d been in – I’d never told him what kind of “opening” to expect – I could answer this one easily.  “Yeah, you have a point.”  I shrugged.  “They must’ve had an inside man… or woman,” I added seeing as how that particular role need not be gender-dependent.

Une gave me a long look.  I stared back, a pleasant and unassuming smile in place.

I could totally confess my role in orchestrating the breakout, but I sure as hell wasn’t gonna volunteer the information unless the other guys were under heavy fire.  I had no intention of letting the others take the heat for this, but I didn’t want to implicate Howard, either.  Not on the record.

The transmission I’d sent before our extraction was the ace up my sleeve.  All I had to do was confess to that and I’d be in the hot seat.  Just me and me alone.

Of course, there was also that suspiciously scratched access panel in the bathroom of the apartment Trowa and I had shared for all of thirty-some-odd hours.  Since we’d taken precautions to make any surveillance equipment worthless, they’d have a job of proving who had actually done that damage and for what end.  Plus, for all they knew, it had been scratched before Trowa and I had moved in there.  And, as spouses, we couldn’t be forced to testify against each other in court.  So, unless they had video footage of me appropriating the degreaser, then it was all very shakily circumstantial.  If Une pressed charges, it’d be down to a popularity contest in court and, I’ll be honest, I could think of better ways for the government to spend the taxpayers’ money.

Une could, too.  The instant her lips quirked into a sardonic grin and her gaze slid away, I knew we’d arrived at an understanding: she wouldn’t ask and I wouldn’t tell.

Huh.  Maybe I could grow to like her – just a little bit – after all.  Trowa would be proud of me for overcoming my grudge.

Speaking of Trowa, he was the very next point she brought up.

“Your marriage to Trowa Barton,” she remarked abruptly, glancing up from the fancy leather folio balanced on her knees.

I braced myself while trying not to _look_ like I was bracing myself.  Une pinned me with a stare so intense that I figured this is what all those Leo pilots must have felt like when I’d skewered their suits on my Beam Scythe.  Y’know, just before they exploded.

“Do you love him?”

 _Damn,_ but she did _not_ pull her punches.  My hands, which were resting on my knees, tensed.  My fingers curled into the meat around the joints.  “That’s none of your business,” I answered aggressively.

“It is if you used your marriage to your advantage.”

“The hell!” I spat.  “Of course we damn well used it to our advantage!  D’you think we _wanted_ Dekim to threaten Heero, Quatre, or Wufei?”

“So you gave him a reason to focus his attention on the two of you?”

“I guess you could say that,” I admitted with just enough reluctance.  I wondered if she was gonna give me the opening I needed, here.  _Just dig a bit deeper, Une sweetheart.  Just a bit more…_

Une snapped, “Don’t tell me what I _could_ say, Mr. Maxwell.  Tell me how it went down.”

I sighed and leaned back as if I were giving in.  “Look,” I began, “the other guys… they should have stayed behind at WEI.  They ended up on that damn colony because of me, because I was told someone had gotten their hands on Deathscythe.  As the pilot, it’s my responsibility to make sure no one gets hurt by _my_ Gundam.”

“But you were the only one with all the access codes,” Une pointed out, clearly playing the Devil’s advocate now.  _“You_ should not have left the compound in the first place.  You gave them the _key_ to operating Deathscythe when you submitted to—”

“What makes you think they would’ve taken ‘no’ for an answer?” I retorted.

“So there was force involved at the compound?”

“The threat of it, yeah.”  I described the Taser that one of the goons had flashed at me.

“And both you and Mr. Barton combined couldn’t diffuse the situation?”

“Maybe we could have,” I allowed.  “But at what cost?”  I let out a breath in silence and decided this was my cue to offer up my rationale for dissection on the operating table.  “Someone I trusted told me that my Gundam had been taken.  I had to take that seriously.  And not just for the sake of the innocent civilians who might get hurt with it.  I was thinking of the total human cost – the idiots who were gonna get fried to a crisp when they tried to hack their way in, included.”  I let her poke at that a bit for a minute before I summed up with, “Besides, if Trowa and I resisted and were injured, we’d be totally unprepared for the worst case scenario.”

“That being?”

“That being that someone actually _did_ have Deathscythe and intended to use it no matter how many lives were lost in cracking its code.  I could _not_ let that happen.  So, if we were dealing with someone like that, then Trowa and I would need to be in top condition when we had to double cross our captors and literally _fight_ for our survival.”

After a long moment, she observed, “It didn’t come to that.”

“Hah!  That’s funny.  It kinda felt like it.”  Aside from my tussle with the four goons and Trowa’s re-entry Reaper act, that was true, but we’d fought for our survival nonetheless. I was under no illusions about that.

“I was referring to the fact that you did not, at any time, use lethal force.”

“We’re not at war anymore,” I replied simply.

She nodded once, looking pleased.  Although it was an encouraging gesture, I didn’t feel all that, um, reassured.  I was right to be wary.

“The general populace condemned you to a life sentence of public service,” Une reminded me unnecessarily.  “Why would you care if Deathscythe was used to harm anyone?”

I gave her a disgusted look.  “Am I bitter over being incarcerated and made to live like a damn hamster running in a wheel that never goes anywhere?  Yeah.  A bit.  I think I’m entitled to that.  But I’m not vicious.”  Before she could look skeptical – my war record was working against me here – I went on, “Look, I screwed up during the war.  Hell, we _all_ did.”  I aimed a meaningful look at her.  As far as I knew, no one had ever charged her with the assassination of Relena’s adoptive father and we both knew she was guilty as hell of that.  Plus a plethora of other underhanded nastiness.  “We need to try to make up for that,” I concluded.  “Make reparations, I mean.”

“So you wish to return to WEI?”

I think I pulled a muscle keeping the bark of sarcastic laughter from erupting out of my mouth.  “No.  I don’t think that screening emails utilizes my full potential.”

“I’m glad we agree.”

Well, hell.  That sounded ominous.

Une gave me a knowing grin.  “But that discussion will wait for another time.”

Snapping the cover shut on her fancy clipboard-thing, she informed me, “That’s all for now, Mr. Maxwell.  Get some rest.  I ask that you remain on the premises until arrangements can be made for your accommodation.”

Well, that was dissatisfyingly neutral.  I had no hint as to what the aforementioned “accommodation” might be, but I sensed that asking would end up backing me into a corner before I was ready to fight my way out of it.  So I kept my damn mouth shut.

The director gestured me out of the interview room and, although I checked, I didn’t see Trowa anywhere in the hallway or the lobby beyond.  Presumably, he was in one of the other little “conference” rooms down this corridor.  I had no way of knowing which one and I was pretty sure barging through one door after the other would kill the tentative truce Une and I were currently enjoying.

With a sigh, I schlepped my way out into the lobby, hoping Trowa’s chat with Une would be short and non-incriminating.

“This way, Mr. Maxwell.”

I looked up and grinned.  “Hey, you look familiar,” I greeted, wandering over to where Hilde was standing – looking very sharp and official in her Preventers uniform – next to the elevator bank.  “Keeper of the peace is a good look for you.”

“Dummy,” she scolded playfully.  “It’s not _a look.”_

“Oh, man!” I exclaimed, feigning shock.  “So, like, the rumors are _true?”_   I took a half a step back and narrowed my eyes with suspicion.  “Unless you just lifted those threads from laundry…?”

“You underestimate me, as _usual,”_ she reprimanded, pressing the call button for the elevator.  “Would you like to see my badge?”  This she asked with no small amount of sarcasm.

“That depends,” I retorted.  The elevator doors opened and I waited until we were inside to finish the thought.  “How photogenic are you?”

Hilde smacked me on the arm.

“Hey!” I objected.

“Serves you right.”

“Does not.  It was a legitimate question!”

“Only if you’re nosing around for blackmail material.”

“Ahhh… so you’re _not_ photogenic,” I surmised smugly.

“More so than you will be if you keep this up.”

I snorted out a giggle.  “Admit it.  You missed me.”

She gave me a sidelong glance and an I’m-trying-not-to-laugh grin.  “Why would I miss _you?”_

The elevator doors opened before I could demonstrate my helpful side by giving her a list of absurdly witty reasons.  The sight that greeted me had my jaw unhinging with surprise.

Across the lobby of what looked like one of the residential floors, a young girl – still a little dusty and disheveled – was standing at the large windows overlooking the Brussels cityscape.  If she’d been all on her lonesome, I might have gone over there and taken another crack at getting a cuss word outta little Miss Mariemeia, but she wasn’t alone.  Heero was standing next to her, hands in his pockets and shoulders slumped as he studied the night and city lights in silence.

Well.  I guess if anyone could understand what Mariemeia had just gone through, it’d be Heero.  Dr. J had used him and betrayed him with that damn order to self-destruct just like Dekim had used and, in the end, betrayed his granddaughter.  Heero had also eventually defied Dr. J as much as Mariemeia had her puppet master.  Both my old war buddy and Treize’s daughter had chosen the hard path for the sake of the greater good: for peace, justice, and the preservation of lives.  And although it hadn’t been nearly as bloody as the war’d been, I knew lives had been lost.  I’d overheard the casualty report as I’d waited for them to finish drawing blood down in medical.  Three ESUN guards and eight of Barton’s people had died in the initial takeover of the government building.

Eleven lives.  That was one for just about every year that Mariemeia had been alive.  One for every summer she’d seen, every birthday she’d had, every Christmas tree she’d decorated.  Those eleven people would never enjoy another summer, celebrate another birthday, or sing another Christmas carol.  Never again.

Heero would understand that, too.

Hilde tugged on my arm and, with a start, I realized I was just standing here in the hall, staring like a moron.  I got my butt in gear and we quietly moved into the corridor, leaving a former Gundam pilot and the little girl who-would-have-been-queen alone in uninterrupted silence together.

When we were far enough down the hall, I dared to ask, “What’s gonna happen to her?  Foster care?”

“No,” Hilde replied, our earlier banter long forgotten.  “Director Une said she’ll petition the courts for custody once formal charges have been filed against Dekim Barton.”

So, the bastard was still alive.  Well.  I wondered if there’d be a trial.  “Hey, do Heero a favor,” I said impulsively.

“What?”  She sounded curious more than anything else.

“Make sure Mariemeia knows where to send her letters, OK?”  Something told me she’d need someone to write to and Heero needed someone to – I dunno – help him learn how to forgive himself.

“You don’t ask for much,” she joked.  I gave her a look and she sobered.  “All right.  I’ll take care of it.”

I nodded.  Then I changed the subject.  “So… you teamed up with the Sweepers, huh?  Do they have badges, too?”

Hilde rolled her eyes.  “I’m still waiting for a thank you.”

“Uh… thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I leaned toward her and whispered, “What am I thanking you for exactly?”

“If you have to ask—!”

“No, no!” I replied, holding up my hands in surrender.  I could make a few guesses.  One of which was—  “Howard told me you went to Une with the idea for the op.  And handled all the setup.”

She nodded warily, as if waiting for my verdict.  I dunno where she got the idea that I was some kind of expert on that shit, but…

“Damn fine work, Agent Schbeiker,” I congratulated her.

She grinned and it just mystified me that my opinion was that damn important to her.  “Glad you think so.”

“Hey, nobody died on your watch.”  That was pretty amazing all by itself.  “Plus, you didn’t have to improv.”  Which was frickin’ unbelievable.  “Hell, you must’ve had the Peace Million hiding in the colony’s damn shadow,” I mused.  They’d certainly gotten into that docking bay awfully damn fast… although it sure as hell hadn’t felt like it at the time.

“Of course,” Hilde admitted.  “Once I got assigned to the communications unit, it was easy to cover up their approach.”

I demanded impulsively, “Tell me your other half appreciates how awesome you are.”

“Oh, most definitely.”

“Good.  I’m too wiped out to beat anybody up right now.”

Hilde let out an exasperated laugh and then stopped beside a seemingly-random door.  “Here we are, big brother Duo.  Housing unit fifty-four.”

“Thanks, Hil,” I said gratefully.

“Get some rest.  You’ve earned it.”

I’d have to take her word on that.  But, damn.  Earned or not, I was damn well gonna crash.

Ten seconds after hauling my exhausted ass over the threshold, I was face down on the bed, ready for the Nightie Night Fairy to pay me a visit.  The trouble was I couldn’t actually get to sleep and _stay_ that way.  I kept _almost_ falling asleep, but then I’d jerk awake, my gaze darting around the cozy efficiency apartment as if I was looking for someone or as if I was sure someone _ought_ to be in here with me.  It was the weirdest sensation and it took my poor sleep-deprived brain a while before I realized just what was up.

I was looking for someone, all right.  I was waiting for my mission partner, my _Trowa._

Hold up.  _My_ Trowa?  The hell.

I rolled over toward the edge of the too-big bed and sat up.  The carpet tiles tickled and scratched my bare feet as I slumped there with my head in my hands.  I was so tired I could cry.  Of course, that’s when all my thoughts slammed into one another and I hit critical mass.

Shit.  Now it comes to it:  Should I go looking for Trowa or stay put and wait and see if he comes to me?  What exactly was our arrangement now?  Did I have the right to go barging into his place?  Did I have any reason to expect he’d come looking for me?  He’d said _later,_ but there were lots of different kinds of laters.  And how could I both hate the word with a passion and feel comforted it by it all at the same time?

I pondered that for a moment… or an hour.  I was too damn tired to keep track of just how long I sat there staring blankly into the darkness.  I think I might have actually started to doze off when the front door whispered open.

I guess it was a measure of just how out of it I was given that I didn’t even spare a thought for the fact that I was sitting here in full view of the hall in nuthin’ but my boxers.  I squinted into the light just as I heard Trowa’s voice say, “Thank you, Hilde.”

That sat me up straight.  And then, belatedly, I fumbled for the light switch.  The bedside lamp clicked on as the door closed and there was Trowa, still in his flight suit, just standing there.  Looking at me.

“Hey,” I croaked.

“Hey,” he answered, continuing to – I dunno – keep the doormat from running off and joining the circus or something.  (Yet another career path he knew a thing or two about.)

Drawing on reserves I hadn’t really counted on still having, I pushed myself to my feet.  He watched as I went to him.  _“You look like your ass is draggin’, baby,”_ I didn’t say.  _“Did Une hang you up by your ankles or use the thumbscrews?”_ I didn’t joke.

What I said was, “Is it later?”

They were just three words, but the result was explosive.  It was like someone had flipped a switch, or pressed the Play button on some cosmic remote control.  Suddenly, he and I were right back in the middle of the moment we’d abandoned in the hangar.

His arms went around me and mine around him and our mouths just freakin’ crashed together.  This time (unlike the instance in the bathroom of our suite on X18999), when he planted his hands on my ass and picked me up, I didn’t bitch at him over it.  Maybe later.  Right now, I was more interested in moving us as expeditiously as possible toward the bed.  My other main priority was our tongue war.  Which I was determined to win.

Trowa groaned when I wrapped my legs around his hips and I momentarily gained the advantage in our kissing contest.  When his shins encountered the edge of the bed, we broke for air and I grinned.  Round One went to me, I was sure.  Round Two didn’t start until I was lying beneath him and had his flight suit stripped down to his knees, which took about three whole seconds.  Plenty of time for a breather.

Our noses bumped and our teeth clicked as he wiggled his way out of the clingy-as-hell fabric.  I reached for my underwear, my nails carelessly scratching Trowa’s belly in the process.

“Duo,” he said softly, intercepting my hand before I could shove the waistband down.  “Shh,” he soothed.  “We have time.”

_Time._

For some damn reason, that single word just blew me apart.  It blasted me open.  I swallowed back a shout or a sob – I dunno which – and gripped Trowa’s arms tightly.  Too tightly.  I was probably hurting him, but I couldn’t let go.  All at once, that raging tornado was back for an encore and I just didn’t know what to do.

“I can’t…” I began, my voice doing that broken bicycle thing again.  “I can’t…”

“Then don’t,” he advised, tunneling his hands beneath my back and holding onto me just as tightly as I was holding onto him.  I wound myself bodily around him and buried my face in that quiet, soft, warm space along his neck, between his ear and the line of his shoulders, and just tried to breathe without breaking.

“Hold on,” he urged me, not just permitting my circulation-strangling grip, but _asking_ me to hang onto him like I was never gonna let go.  “I’m here.  Just hold on.”

I pressed my lips to the pulse shuddering steadily beneath his skin, nuzzled against his beard stubble, and just marked off his heartbeats as I clung to him.  I eventually lost count, but I was asleep before I could care.


	14. Put Love on Hold

# Chapter 14: Put Love on Hold

_I’m a stitch away from making it and a scar away from falling apart…_

 

I woke up sweaty with more muscle cramps than I could count and feeling like I’d spent the last six hours getting bounced around in the asteroid belt.  Normally, this would be cause for groaning theatrically.  The fact that I was literally pretzeled around Trowa had me blinking instead.  Damn.  Had we lain here like this all damn night?

Belatedly, I realized I was holding my breath.  As I cautiously let it out, I winced.  My mouth both felt and tasted like moldy, moth-eaten-and-dust-covered drapes.  Smelled just about as nice, too.  Oh, man.  I grossed myself out.  Well, at least my head was tucked down against Trowa’s chest and I was breathing downwind, otherwise he would’ve had a really, _really_ rough night.

I glanced up, noting that the light in our room appeared to be natural and I spotted a ray of sunlight peeping through the shades on our window.  Dude.  We were guests of the Preventers and we had a window.  Une had given _us_ a window.

Oh my God.  What in the hell did she want from us?  More blood, sweat, and terror?  I’m not ashamed to admit that I was scared to find out.

I turned my attention back to Trowa.  His eyes were closed and his breathing even.  Those two things alone were no indicator that he was really asleep, but just in case he was, I went about untangling myself from him as smoothly as possible.  I didn’t try to be stealthy because, if he was just like me, that’d set off warning bells instantly.  But I didn’t just kick my way free, either, because, hell.  That just wasn’t nice.

I was nearly clear – just trying to figure out how to get my arm, which was numb, out from under his shoulder where he was pinning me to the mattress – when his lashes fluttered and he shifted.  “Hmm?” he asked.

Pulling my arm free, I declared, “Gotta take a leak.”

“Hm.”

I took care of that and more while I was in the bathroom.  Hell, I even dared a shower and, in the process, I discovered the first advantage of my now-shorter hair: less shampoo lathering required.  I was standing at the bathroom sink with a towel wrapped around my hips, teeth thoroughly brushed and I’d moved on to shaving, when Trowa shuffled in on a direct course for the john.

I waited until he was done using it before saying, “You look like hell, baby.”

“Your fault,” he replied, elbowing me out of the way so he could wash up.

“Yeah,” I admitted, passing him a hand towel and pointing out the little, personal hygiene packs of mouth care stuff, the kind you get at business hotels.  “But Hell’s also my territory, so you fit right in.”

“Home sweet home,” he quipped and tore into the bag to get to the toothbrush and two-uses-sized tube of toothpaste.

I continued shaving.  Trowa didn’t ask me if I was OK now.  I guess he could sorta tell that.  Or maybe he was waiting for me to explain that little freak out party I’d thrown last night.  Honestly, I didn’t want to talk about it.  Hell, I didn’t even want to _remember_ it.

He spat in the sink and rinsed.  I braced myself for the first question or the look or the freakin’ _guilt_ to hit.  Trowa studied me with a sidelong glance and I focused on _not_ shaving off the skin over my Adam’s apple.

I felt a touch in my hair and it startled me.  Trowa immediately dropped his hand and I hated myself for my reaction: it was a nice feeling when he played with my hair.  I hated myself for liking it and I hated myself for making him think he ought to stop.

“It’s not long enough for a ponytail yet,” I offered, trying not to look at the ragged locks in the mirror.

Trowa smiled that cute, little grin of his.  Yeah, I was gonna grow it out again.  A little.  I didn’t elaborate because I could tell he got it.  But then he surprised the hell outta me by grabbing his own long bangs and, pulling all that damn hair together, he said, “Mine is.”

I had to set the razor down while I laughed.  “Sorry, babe, but that’s just not a good look for you.”

“I’m heartbroken.”

“I can tell,” I replied through twitching lips.  “But, hey.  You could try a couple of those skinny, little braids with beads on the end!”

“If I wake up one day with beads in my hair…”  He trailed off, apparently deciding that the warning tone was sufficient.

I guessed perkily, “I’ll get a big, wet kiss as a thank you?”

I didn’t leap aside in time to avoid the open-palmed smack on my towel-covered ass.  “Yeow!  Knock that kinky stuff off!  We’re in Une’s house!”  I mean, _really._

Trowa chuckled and pressed an apologetic kiss to my cheek.  “Shower,” he informed me.

“Enjoy.”  I watched, helplessly, in the mirror as he stripped off his undies and climbed in.  God, he was fine.  Every line, every inch of him was perfect.  OK, now, I know this is gonna sound bizarre, but… I was straight.  I _knew_ this.  Hilde was a beautiful woman and, in another life, maybe I would’ve taken the initiative and asked her out (y’know, back when she’d been single an’ all).  Or, hell, I might have asked out any number of funny, smart, attractive girls.  But that hadn’t been my life.  My life had consisted of being locked up in corporate hell until I’d made the decision to marry a man whom I trusted with my life.  Was I attracted to him?  Hell yes.  Was I attracted to other men?  No.  I had yet to meet or even lay eyes on another man who affected me the way Trowa did.  Ergo, I was straight… except for him.

That was kinda freaky.  I opened my mouth to ask Trowa if it was the same for him, and then – realizing how inappropriate that question would be – I shut it again.  Trowa and I had gotten married for the sake of the mission.  Maybe he was straight, too, and he just really liked me, cared about me, whatever.  Maybe he was gay and the same conditions applied.  Did it really matter?  No, not really.

What mattered was the mission was over.  The mission was done and so were we as soon as the dust settled.

I cleared my throat as if that would somehow loosen the muscle cramp in my chest and dissolve the immovable ball of lead in my gut.

I finished up in the bathroom and went to hunt down some clean duds.  I found a pair of boxers, still in the retail package, in the drawer.  They were cotton and white with blue pinstripes and I hated them on sight, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.  Until I could get my regular ones laundered, these would have to do.  I stuffed my black boxers into a pocket of my leather jacket and picked up the clothes I’d been wearing for the last two days.   After the compulsory sniff test (which they passed… barely), I got my ass dressed.  Man, but I wanted my stuff back.  I didn’t have much, but it was _mine._   Y’know?

There was absolutely nuthin’ I could do about my hair except tuck it behind my ears.  It felt weird – like ghosts were constantly running their misty fingers through it – and it didn’t stay in place for long, which irritated me.  I went through the drawers and cupboards until I found a Preventers “Trainee” baseball cap on the top shelf in the closet.  Bingo.

I had the hat on front-to-back and was debating sticking my head in the bathroom to ask Trowa if this looked as dorky as it felt when the doorbell chimed.  I went over and hit the release button.  Sally was standing on the threshold, looking fresh and smart in her white lab coat.

“You’re out for blood, aren’t you?” I guessed, foregoing the standard “Good morning” stuff.  I mean, who really cares about that shit anyway?  A good morning is a morning spent in bed, _not_ talking to people and wishing them a freakin’ good morning.

She smiled.  “In a manner of speaking.  We need to check to make sure there aren’t any internal injuries we missed yesterday.”

“I’m totally fine,” I assured her.  She didn’t believe me.  I offered to do some calisthenics to prove it.

She ignored me.  “As soon as Trowa’s ready—”  We could both still hear the shower running.  “—I need both of you to come down to Medical.  I promise it’ll be quick and painless.”  She winked.

“Uh huh.”   I was just jerking her chain, though.  I knew the ultrasound she had planned for us would be totally benign.  It still wouldn’t be very damn comfortable, though.  Cold, sticky, chemical-scented gel gumming up the fine hairs on your belly was not fun, no matter what your kink was.

“You have twenty minutes before I send in the troops,” she warned me and although she was smiling, I knew she was serious.

“Roger that.”

I waited until the door shut to let out a deep sigh.  I was starting to hate how life just kept moving forward even though I didn’t really want it to.  The state of suspended animation in WEI was starting to look kind of… well, not _nice,_ but familiar, I guess.  Non-threatening.

Christ, I was a mess.  I’d spent the last four years obsessing over how to get all five of us out of that damn place and now all I could think about was how those doorways had been perfect for kissing Trowa goodnight, how we’d spent exactly two nights in _our_ bed and what a missed opportunity that was, how Trowa had kissed me in the middle of the cafeteria in front of the whole damn workforce and… damn.  Thinking about this shit was only gonna make the inevitable that much harder to deal with.

I drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, clearing my mind.  Right.  We had shit to do.

Being the super great, nice guy that I am, I fished out a package of clean undies for Trowa and tossed them onto the bathroom counter.  “Med check in twenty!” I told him.

“Hoo-rah.”

I snorted.  My gaze flickered toward the pebbled-glass shower doors and my pulse suddenly spiked as I watched him lift his arms and face up to the spray, presumably for the rinse cycle of things.  I stood there and just stared like an idiot at the blur of skin visible through the translucent door.  So much for clearing my damn mind.  Damn.  Damn damn damn.

I let my thoughts go no further than that.

Palms sweaty, I retreated back to the main room and sat my ass down on the desk by the door to wait.

Not two minutes later, the water shut off, the shower door slid open, and the sound of a towel being applied to a dripping body filled the silence.  Shortly thereafter, the blow dryer clicked on.  It occurred to me that I didn’t have to be jealous of Trowa’s easy hair care routine anymore, which was too bad.  I’d kind of liked getting snarky over it.  Instead, I felt stripped of something important, as if I’d somehow lost a layer of camouflage, as if my mask was somehow thinner than it had been before.

“You have an obsession with clothes?” Trowa asked, dumping me out of my thoughts.  He was standing in the doorway wearing nuthin’ but a towel – and, damnitall, yes, he looked better in it than I had – and waving the package of undies in the air.

“Most people look better with them on,” I heard myself tease.  It came out kinda flat, though.

He blinked at me once and gave me a searching look.  “Most people?”

“Er…”  My gaze slid away guiltily.  I felt my shoulders start to hunch.  We were approaching the line that was not to be crossed.  There was no way I could tell Trowa that I _liked_ seeing him without a stitch of clothing on.  In fact, I liked it just a little _too_ much.  But I could not tell him that.  Not if we were gonna be going our separate ways or whatever.

My throat thickened with phlegm as I contemplated those damn annual get-togethers or political powwows again.  I didn’t want to spend time with him like that.  I wanted…  I wanted…

 _As if what you want matters, Maxwell,_ Shinigami pointed out with a cackle.

Yeah.  Yeah, he had a point.

When I looked up again, Trowa was still standing there, waiting for me to spit out whatever I was gonna say, so I said, “Stop trying to tempt your weak-willed husband and get the hell dressed, babe.”

I slid off the desk – it was either that or bury my face in my hands and despair pointlessly – and headed for the door.  “I’ll see you down in Medical.”

I didn’t glance over my shoulder to see how close he’d come to hauling my ass back into the apartment… if he’d lunged after me at all.  He might not have.  He might have just watched me go, nothing in his eyes but pity because, dammit, I knew I wasn’t taking this well.  I knew things were different now.  I _got_ that.  I just had to, I dunno, let it sink in, maybe.

Or let it sink _me._   Maybe it would take time for reality to torpedo whatever it was I didn’t want to let go of.  Sink or swim, right?  I hoped I’d be able to offload that dead weight once it started to drag me down with it.

I booked it down the hall to the elevator and let out the breath I’d been holding when I saw the highlights of each floor posted on a helpful plaque beside the buttons.  I punched the one for the second floor where Sally’s domain was located.  She had me in an exam room so fast I _think_ I managed to exchange waves with Quatre who looked like he was on his way out.

“See you at breakfast!” he said and then I was getting poked and slimed as they scanned and probed for slow-developing, nasty internal injuries.  As promised, it was painless.  It was not, however, a thrill a minute.  I was grateful when Sally just gave it the hell up and signed off on my health chart, that is, until she mentioned the next item up on the agenda, couching it in an offer of sustenance:

“Why don’t you go up and get something to eat on the third floor?  You have fifteen minutes before Director Une wants to go over your debriefing statement.”

I groaned.  My stomach grumbled.  The hell.  Was it too late to crawl back into the WEI building and sit my ass down in my shitty desk chair so I could start clicking through the company’s Charitable Works inbox?

…yeah.  That’s what I figured.

“What’s wrong, Duo?”

I blinked and found myself standing opposite Quatre at a table in the Preventers’ food court.  I had a tray in my hands with what looked like an omelet and some toast on it but no memory of actually acquiring any of it.  Nor of actually making the trip between here and Medical.

“Uh…” I began, glancing around to get my bearings.  The angle of sunlight told me it was mid-morning.  The clock on the wall confirmed it.  I didn’t recognize anyone else in the sparsely populated room.

“Here, sit down,” Quatre said, standing up and reaching across the little, round table to push out the chair next to me.

“OK,” I said, as if he’d asked me for something of vital importance which I was now approving.  I sat.  I contemplated the omelet on my plate.

“Duo…”

I looked up.  “Yeah?”

Quatre gave me a look that was some kinda mix of apology and tenacity.  “I don’t _want_ to pry, but I’m going to if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“Hah!  Is that the only warning I’m gonna get?”

“Pretty much.”

I picked up my fork and used the edge of it to squeeze off a corner of egg.  There was no way in hell (or on Earth, for that matter) that I was gonna tell him what was bugging me.  I mean, shit.  If I wasn’t even letting myself think about it then why would I freakin’ _say_ it out loud?

“Fine,” I pretended to capitulate.  “I have no frickin’ idea what Une wants from us.  Do you?”

That was actually a very worrisome point, but I could tell Quatre knew it wasn’t the Big One.  He let it go though, probably because he was hoping that if he just got me talking, the rest of it would pop out eventually.

“Well, she hasn’t said it in so many words, but I suspect she’ll offer us positions.”

“In a prison cell somewhere or chained up on the bottom of the ocean?”

Quatre gave me a look, letting me know my humor was not appreciated in this instance.  “No, _here._   With the Preventers.”

Well, shit.  That could end up being just as bad, in my opinion.  “You gonna accept?  Y’know, if she asks?”

“Maybe…”

His hesitation was comforting.  I knew Quatre hadn’t liked the messy aspects of fighting for peace.  It’d been his unshakable belief that he was fighting for a better future that had made him such a damn effective pilot.  Despite his unquestionable skill in that department, I couldn’t see him picking up a gun now.  Maybe they’d give him a desk to ride or a seat in the intel command center.  He could do a lot of good here, in the right position.  I didn’t say that – there was no point in counting your options before they came your way.  Besides, Trowa would just tell me I’d jinxed him.

Something in my chest shifted at the reminder of him.  Dammit.  I had to get myself under control.  I’d never lied to myself about how things were gonna go when we got to the fallout part; I’d always known Trowa and I would split up.  I had no right to be in such a damn funk about it.

“Debriefing, the sequel, is up next, I hear,” I said.

“Une just wants us to read over and sign our statements from yesterday.”

“Uh huh.”  Why, yes, that _is_ Skepticism you hear.  He tends to keep a low profile, though, so that’s why you haven’t heard much from him.

I got through half of my omelet before I just couldn’t stomach the damn thing anymore.  Speculation was leaving a funny taste in my mouth that was making me think I was eating rubber chicken feet instead of actual food.  “I’m goin’ up,” I said, standing.  “Get it over with.”

“You’re not going to wait for Trowa?”  Quatre looked more than just surprised.  He actually seemed a little disappointed.  He had no right to be and it pissed me off that he was.

“He’s still in Medical.  I’ll see you later.”

Obviously, I was not in a very gracious mood.  There were tons of things I should have said to Quatre: thanks for leaving WEI and coming after us; thanks for handling the mobile dolls; thanks for coming to Brussels…  Did I say any of it?  No.  No, I didn’t.  I was in full-out bastard mode and God help the poor schmucks that got in my way because I sure as hell wasn’t gonna.

I didn’t encounter anyone who dared to call my name or make eye contact as I commandeered an elevator and took it up to the conference room level.  I had the receptionist show me to a private meeting room where I sat and stared at the walls until Une clicked her way in on spikey, high heels.

She took one look at me and said not a word as she laid a sheaf of papers down on the table with a pen.  Then she clicked her way out.

The door shut and I let out a gusty sigh.  With it, my sudden anger vanished and I slumped in my seat.  As this was not the place or the time to start thinking about shit like regrets, I picked up the pen and twirled it absently as I started reading through my statement.  There were a couple of things – mostly word choice – which I felt were a bit off, but mostly because I hadn’t thought to say it that way at the time.  They sounded good, though, and – more than that – the overall effect made me sound like a guy who wanted to do the right thing, who wanted to make a difference, who cared about the people of Earth as much as he cared about the people of the colonies.  I could live with that.

I got done reading and signed the damn thing.  Then, I stared at the walls some more.

When the door opened again, I glanced up and saw Hilde standing there with a bundle of large, manila folders tucked under her arm.

“Are we having fun yet?” I deadpanned.  Suddenly, I felt very, very tired.  But hell, it wasn’t even noon.

“I’ve got something that’ll put a smile on your face,” she told me, indicating the files she was carrying.  “Let’s head down to the conference room so we can get the party started.”

“Groovy,” I replied and numbly followed her lead.

Somehow, I wasn’t surprised that I was the last to arrive.  It was to be expected that my statement would be pretty damn detailed.  Also, there was the unattractive fact that I was purposefully dragging my feet.

Heero, Quatre, Wufei, and Trowa were all seated around a table with Une.  There were two seats open.  One beside the director and one next to Trowa.  I bit back a sigh and let Hilde sit next to her boss.

As I slid into the remaining chair – which squeaked in protest – Trowa gave me a considering look.  I knew that look.  He was trying to figure me out.  Hell, he was probably wondering what the hell my problem was.  I gave him gamely grin.  It was fake – I could practically hear my own face creak like plastic under stress – and I knew he could tell.  Yeah, I wasn’t fooling anyone.  That was a Maxwell _fail._

“Normally,” Une began, “we’d be conducting this next part with each of you in private.  However, you’ve demonstrated a... tendency—”  I didn’t congratulate the director on her diplomatic choice of word, although I certainly thought about it.  “—to maintain your solidarity no matter the circumstances and, as such, I feel it would be more productive to simply do this once.”

She motioned to Hilde, who stood and began handing out the files: one to Heero, one to Wufei, one to Quatre, and two which she placed between Trowa and me.

 _“Gettin’ lazy, Schbeiker?”_ I would have teased if Une hadn’t spoken then.

“Inside you’ll find new identification including a birth certificate, employment history, graduation diploma, and a deed to a residence.”

I didn’t even touch my file.  Nobody else did, either.

“What’s the catch?” Heero demanded.

Une’s lips twitched into a wry smile.  “Inside, you’ll also find the Preventers recruitment pack.”

Hah.  I knew it.

“And before you refuse outright,” Une continued, “I urge you to look over the career options available to you here.  It’s my hope that, over the next four months, you’ll give the offer a great deal of thought.”

So she was giving us a deadline.  It was a helluvalot more lenient than I expected, but I suspected that was because the consequences of turning her down were gonna be really, really, epically _bad._

“What happens if we refuse?” I asked.  I didn’t ask what would happen if we just disappeared, although, to be honest, I doubted that any of us would consider that a palatable option.  It certainly wasn’t what I’d worked toward.  I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder and I was pretty sure the other guys felt the same.

“If you decline a position with the Preventers, then you will be required to present yourselves before the War Tribunal,” Une replied.  “At which time you may call upon me and the Preventer agents involved with the X18999 operation to speak on your behalf, which we will be happy to do.  I cannot, however, guarantee that you will be acquitted.”

“Acquitted?” I coughed out.  “What are the charges?”

Une replied smoothly, “The moment you set foot outside Winner Enterprises, you were in violation of your public service sentence.”

Well, that sounded pretty bad.  And Une sounded pretty satisfied with it, too.  Dammit, I _knew_ she’d had an ulterior motive for helping us out.  Hell, she and Howard had ended up giving us enough rope to hang ourselves if we didn’t play nice.  It was underhanded, devious, and cunning.  I could appreciate that kind of tactic.

It still pissed me off, though.

“Is the court willing to overlook the breach of our sentence if we commit to positions here?” Quatre pressed.

“Yes,” Une replied.  “I’ve spoken with them and they agreed: if it could be shown that the former Gundam pilots acted in the best interests of the public and assisted in the neutralization of the Barton Foundation, then they would grant you clemency so that you might use your skills for the continual preservation of the peace.”

Right, so we were lookin’ at a career with Une’s hand on our collective leash or it was back to the WEI machine.  Or prison.

“Super,” I remarked tonelessly.

“You have four months to consider this, gentlemen,” she reminded us.  “And you need not choose an active role in peacekeeping.  We have openings in Operations, Logistics, Training, Legal Affairs, and Air Support—”  I shivered.  Damn, I could pilot a ship again… if I handed over my immortal soul.  “—as well as Law Enforcement.”  She pinned each of us with a glance, one after the other.  “The possibilities are endless.  Don’t be quick to discount them.”

The room was utterly silent as she sat back in her chair and let us absorb all that, which we did.

I was trying very hard to stay angry, but I was losing that battle.  Une was offering us more of a choice than we had any right to expect given the War Tribunal’s ruling the first time around.  She was offering us our choice of careers, offering to back us so that we’d be able to walk down the street in broad daylight.  Still, I had one question.  I opened my mouth to ask it.  Heero beat me to it.

“What’s the duration of our contract?”

“Three years,” Une answered promptly.  “After which time, you’ll be eligible for re-evaluation.”

So, basically, we had three years to work our asses off and prove ourselves as invaluable assets of Une’s pet organization and if we didn’t they’d put those damn windowless walls back around us.

“What if we want to work for ourselves?” I argued for the hell of it.  “Open a convenience store or something?”

“You’ll have to follow standard procedure if you wish to terminate your contract, Mr. Maxwell,” Une replied, “by filing a request for permanent or temporary absence.”

Hm.  OK.  Maybe we weren’t quite as boxed in as it looked at first glance.  Not that I thought they’d let me go off and open a quickie mart or anything, but maybe if my work was tangently related to (or sometimes supported) the Preventers, they’d let me do my own thing.  I’d still be on a leash, but it’d be a longer one.

All things considered, it could be worse.

When no other hypotheticals or questions were presented, Une set aside the current topic with a decisive nod.  “You may be called to testify at Dekim Barton’s trial,” she informed us.  “In the event of that occurring, you will be contacted by Mr. Wufei Chang, who has already accepted a field position with us and will begin training on the first of the month.”

Whoa, that was fast.Fast, but maybe not all that surprising.  I leaned around Trowa and grinned, this time for real.  “Congratulations, man.”

“Thank you,” he replied, inclining his head.  His eyes were shining with a fierce light, a light that I’d seen a couple of times during the war but never since.  Yeah, being an agent was gonna be good for him.  I could tell.

Une wrapped up the meeting with: “You are all free to stay here and accept the accommodation of the Preventers until you reach a decision.  Or, if you wish to relocate to your assigned premises, indicate thus to Agent Schbeiker who will arrange for transportation and utilities hook-up.  That is all.”  She stood and the rest of us stood as well, if for no other reason than out of appreciation for what was clearly supposed to be generosity.  I guess we’d figure out what it really was in due course, but for now none of us were looking to bite the hand that was passing out new futures.

“Thank you for your assistance with Agent Schbeiker’s operation, gentlemen.  You performed admirably and I believe each and every one of you will be an asset to this organization.  In turn, it is my hope that the Preventers will offer you a rewarding career and a chance for personal and professional growth.”

With a nod, she pivoted smartly and clicked out of the room.  After the door shut behind her, Hilde turned to us and said, “Please look over your documents now.  If you have any questions or requests, I’d like to take care of them as soon as possible.”

It was like frickin’ Christmas: here we all were, sitting around in a circle with our “stockings” from “Santa”.  Only… I’d never had a normal Christmas as a kid.  I looked to Wufei and watched as he opened his file with no fuss whatsoever and started reading.  Heero was the next to follow suit.  Then Quatre.  I startled when Trowa handed over my file in silence, his visible green eye focused on me.

I took the damn thing just to avoid his searching look.

Letting out a long breath, I flipped open the folder and took a gander at the new _me._   As I read, I felt a smile tug at my lips.

My name was now Joseph Cross (if I wanted it) and I was a graduate of a decently reputable high school which focused on preparing its students for careers that dealt with machinery.  I’d apparently also passed a junior’s pilot course as a teenager and logged over three hundred flying hours.  There was more, but I didn’t pay too much attention right now.  I was just happy that I had my foot in the door of a career behind the yoke.

I flipped through the pages until I came to a glossy 8x10 photo of a small house in a woodsy clearing.  Instantly curious, I glanced at the corresponding map.  It looked like Une had set me up somewhere remote in Ireland.  Well, for the next four months or so, anyway.  Even though there was no way I’d be able to live there permanently if I took a job with the Preventers _here,_ it’d be a helluva retreat on my vacation time.  It looked peaceful.  It looked normal.  It looked _nice._

With a carrot like this, I was almost tempted to say to hell with the four months; sign me up for training and the pilot’s course _now!_   As an afterthought, I took a look at the next page in the file and found myself skimming over the contract of ownership for the house… and I nearly had a freakin’ heart attack.

There on the dotted line were two names.  One was Joseph Cross and the second was Tristan Armstrong.  I’d give you three guesses as to what Trowa’s new name was, but I doubt you’d need more than one.

I glanced to my left and noticed he was looking at the same thing I was: two names on a very legal-looking deed to a small house in the Irish countryside.  I swiveled around to Hilde before Trowa could catch me gaping at him.

I blurted, “You’ve got us sharing a residence?”

“Um… yes.”  When I just stared at her some more, she explained, “You _are_ married.  To each other?”

I flipped hastily through the remaining pages until I found a familiar-looking document recording the marriage of one Joseph Cross and Tristan Armstrong five days ago.  I just sat there as the pages in my left hand slid back down, one by one, until I was staring at the house deed again.  _Don’t panic,_ I counseled myself.  _This is fixable._

 _That_ shook me out of the death-spiral of disbelief my brain was caught in.  I cleared my throat.  “I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding here.”

“No,” Trowa quickly interjected.  “There hasn’t.”

 _What?_   I couldn’t avoid looking at him now.  I licked my lips, girded my loins, and slowly turned in his direction.  “You…?”

That was all I said.

Trowa gave me an evaluating look, as if he were sizing me up prior to a duel, and seemed to come to some sort of conclusion.  From the way his chin angled, I could tell he didn’t like it, but he was prepared to be stubborn about it.  “Can we have a moment in private?” Trowa requested, standing.

“Certainly.”  Hilde waved a hand toward the door and the hallway of infinite private meeting rooms beyond.  “Take your pick.”

Trowa came around to stand beside my chair and just freakin’ waited for me to get it together.  I gritted my teeth and, after a second of glaring at the varnished wood grain of the tabletop, I did.  I couldn’t bring myself to look at the others as I stood, although I could imagine the looks on their faces.  Damn.  I’d just totally clued them all in to the fact that our marriage was supposed to be a sham.  Heero would be pissed at me.  Quatre would look disappointed all over again.  And Wufei… he was a tough call.  Still, I didn’t think he’d be thrilled with this development.

Taking a fortifying breath, I stood and headed for the door with Trowa right on my heels.  I didn’t duck into the first room I encountered, or the second.  I pushed the door open on the third, though, since I figured Trowa probably wouldn’t let me drag this out past door number four.

I walked in, but I didn’t sit down.  I circled the little table, dropping my file on it and planting my feet shoulder-width apart.  So, we were gonna have it out.  Right.  Best make it as quick and painless as possible.

“You noticed they’ve still got us married?” was my opening volley.

“Yes.”

For a moment, neither one of us moved.  Trowa watched me and I scowled, considering all plausible options.  Was it possible that Trowa wanted to keep the house?  Hell, it’d be nice to share that with him, to spend time together when we had a long weekend off…  Maybe that’s what this was about.  Maybe he didn’t want to restrict our friendship to a quick “hi” and “bye” in the hallowed halls of the Preventers, official functions, and Christmas parties.  I could live with that.  I could _totally_ live with that.  But, first of all, we had to put all this marriage stuff behind us so we could get on with being two guys who jointly owned a place in the mountains.

Naturally, I dived right in.  “Don’t you want a divorce?”

Trowa didn’t even blink in surprise.  I guess he knew my tactics too well.  “Have I ever given you any indication that I would?”

I gulped.  This was what I got for jumping in feet-first.  “Well, no, but, hell…  Everything’s been about the mission and now that we’re free – sorta – I thought you’d…”

“I’d…?”

“Er… wanna make the most of it,” I suggested lamely.

For a moment, he just looked at me.  “Maybe I am.”

I looked back at him.  It occurred to me then that he might have a mission of his own in mind that he’d need a partner or a cover for.  Maybe staying married was the most convenient option for him?  I tentatively investigated this with a leading admission: “I know I owe you a couple of times over.”

“I’m not interested in calling in any outstanding debts, Duo,” he told me, shooting down my theory until it was in smoking, smoldering ruins.  Shit.  What the hell was going on here?

“Look, Tro,” I tried again.  “After everything we’ve been through…  Hell, you know much I trust you.  You’re my best friend in the whole damn universe—”

“Your friend?” he interrupted in a tone that was almost dangerous.

Of course, it got my back up.  “Chill the hell out, man!  Wha—?”  I reined in my knee-jerk reaction and made myself actually _read_ him.  The somber expression, the intent, glittering stare, the tense shoulders… they all added up to one incredible conclusion.  “You… you want more than that?”  I don’t know why I phrased it as a question.  What kind of answer did I think I was hoping for?

“Yes.”

I blinked at him.

“Is that so unbelievable?”

“Well… yeah.  It’s freakin’ laughable that anyone’d want a headcase like me for, y’know…” _forever._

“I’m not laughing.”

“I can see that.”  Shit.  He was honestly, really-and-for-true serious.  My guts knotted with dread that I wasn’t sure I completely understood.  How could I dread the coming breakup and yet dread what was unfolding now?  _What the hell was wrong with me?_

Trowa’s jaw clenched.  “Duo.  We’re married.  I want…”  He glanced down at the file folder between us and sighed out a breath in silence.  “I’ve been fighting for the last four years.  I just want to go home.”

I might be pretty dimwitted about some stuff, but even I knew he wasn’t talking about going home to the circus.  I followed his gaze and stared at the file that was on the table, knowing what was inside it: a future, a partnership, a _home._ For the first time in my life, I had a shot at all that.

Suddenly, all the walls I’d been building and shoring up fell away and I had to close my eyes against the overwhelming _want_ that just about swallowed me whole.  Oh man, I had no words to express how damn _much_ I wanted that life.  It was on the tip of my tongue to agree and just let it all happen, but…

_But I’m straight._

Oh, Christ.  What had I done?  What had I gone and fucking done?  Shit.  I’d told myself – back when I’d started this whole damn thing – that I would _not_ lie to myself, that I would _not_ psych myself into thinking I could be something that I’m not.  I could almost damn Trowa for doing this to me, except I’d done it to myself.  How could I go through with this?  No matter how much I trusted him and liked him and no matter how amazing and sexy he was, how could I just agree to this when I’d never _in my life_ considered choosing to spend the rest of my days with another man?  Right now – this instant – was the first time I’d allowed myself to wonder if something I’d taken for fiction could be made fact.  Could I do this?  Could I just go home and be married… to Trowa?

I didn’t know.  I just…  I just had no freakin’ idea if I was capable of that.  Hell, I had no idea of who I was without the Goddamn mission!  I sensed that it had changed me, but I didn’t know how and I didn’t know if it was permanent.  This version of me who’d been a fiancé and a husband… was he real at all?  Could he be?

“Just answer me one thing,” Trowa said suddenly.

“Um, OK…”

“Why did you choose me?”

I blinked at him.  I opened my mouth to answer… but nothing came out.  I had a million and one reasons – good reasons – for why I’d chosen Trowa to be my partner on that mission.  But, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember a single, solitary one of them at the moment.

So, instead of answering, I returned fire, “Why’d you say yes?”

I didn’t really expect him to answer.  It still shocked the hell outta me when I watched his expression close down.  For the first time since the war, Trowa walled himself off from me completely.  He informed me flatly, “I thought I might have something to offer you after all.”

I was confused.  Wasn’t that – basically – why I’d asked him to marry me in the first place?  Because he had something – a whole lotta somethings – to offer the kind of mission I’d been trying to implement?

But, wait a second.  Hold up here.  Trowa hadn’t said he had something to offer all five of us and that’s who the mission had been intended to benefit.  He hadn’t mentioned the others.  Only me.  What exactly was Trowa implying here?

My mind raced as I dissected his words, his tone, his body language until the penny dropped.  I frickin’ gaped at him.  Christ.  He wasn’t just serious about staying married.  Hell, if he was saying what I thought he was saying, then he’d wanted to stay married _ever since I’d asked him!_   But no, it was deeper than that.  He sounded like he’d considered it a long time ago and discarded it as unlikely, but then, when he’d met me up on the roof and I’d asked, he’d reconsidered and…

What the hell?

I didn’t want to keep digging this hole, but I needed him to be straight with me.  I needed to know that we were speaking the same language here.  “After all?” I echoed.  “Tell me what that means.”

He hesitated, his jaw clenching.

“Please,” I rasped.

He closed his eyes briefly as if gathering himself.  I half expected him to just growl something at the table top, but he didn’t.  He opened his eyes.  He looked up and into mine.  He said, “I’ve been fighting how I feel about you for the past four years.”

No.

Seriously?

I blinked at him.

“I know you’re straight,” he continued.  “But you asked and I said yes because…”

Oh man, I was seriously regretting rolling outta bed this morning.  Fuck.  I almost asked him to stop.  Maybe I would have if I’d had enough spit in my mouth to form the words.

“You needed me,” he finally said, “and dreams don’t die, no matter how many times you bludgeon them.”

I hadn’t expected this, although Shinigami smirked his damn ass off like I should have seen it coming.

My hands trembled.  I reminded myself to breathe.

“I said yes because I thought I had something to offer you after all,” he repeated and, given the context, there was no way I could misunderstand him now.  I couldn’t really believe it, though.  I mean, hell, what made me so damn special that he’d want _me?_   But I was being an ass again, and totally missing the real issue here: the issue encapsulated in those two words – “after all”.

What was this bullshit?  He didn’t seriously think he wasn’t good enough, did he?  He didn’t seriously think that I would have turned him down because he wasn’t smart enough or some other dumb thing?  Hell, he was the most amazingly strong, intuitive and intelligent, courageous and _trusting_ person I’d ever known.  He was—

“I was wrong,” he concluded softly, stepping away from me and toward the door.

I could _not_ let him walk out of here like that.  I slammed my palm down on the table, furious with myself for being such a fuck-up.  “You weren’t wrong!” I argued in a rush.  _I chose you because I wanted it to be you!_   I didn’t say those words because they just begged the one damn question I couldn’t answer:  Did I still want him now that the mission was over?

That was my limit.  I couldn’t deal with this right here, right now, put on the spot like this.  Thankfully, Trowa had paused and was now waiting – still facing the door – for me to explain myself.  The trouble was I couldn’t.

Swallowing thickly, I collected my file from the tabletop, knowing what was in it, knowing what I could have if I just said yes right here, right now…

“Trowa,” I whispered.  “I don’t know who I am anymore.  The last four years, all I’ve been doing is waiting and hoping for a chance to get us all out of there so we could start living again.  In WEI… I don’t know if that was really me, if that was really who I am or…”  Trowa turned toward me and gave me a long, evaluating look.  I swallowed thickly.  “Look, I… I just need to sort some stuff out.”

“Fine,” he said.  Just like that, he was giving me the time and space I needed.  No strings attached.  No conditions applied.  No expiration date posted.

Damn.

I wanted to kiss him again.  I wanted to feel him moving against me, watching me with his passion-flooded, heavy-lidded green eyes and his lips parted in anticipation of a kiss.  Fuck.  I wanted him.  But I had so much to work out and if I touched him now, even in an effort to mend a little of the hurt I knew I was causing him, would it be in farewell?  In the end, would I choose him for a second time?  For real life, whatever that was gonna be?  I didn’t know.  I just knew that I couldn’t let myself say goodbye.  Not with a touch or a kiss or even words.

“You’ll be hearing from me,” I promised, and then I just about ran out of the room.  He didn’t try to hold me back.

I plunged into the hall.  I didn’t go back to the conference room to talk to the guys.  Hell, I couldn’t even wait for the elevator.  I took the stairs.  I had the file with my new ID tucked under my arm and I’d already been debriefed to within an inch of my life.  Now I just needed to get _out._

I booked it to the hangar and got my ass boosted up into my Gundam.  If people called out for me to stop, I didn’t hear them.  I powered up.  I buckled in.

And I know it was impossible, but I swear I could still smell Trowa – his sweat and his faith in me – inside Deathscythe’s cockpit as I took off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Granate’s 1x2x1 fic “Teenage Dirtbag Sequel” is the first story I read in which two men were in a sexual relationship together despite both of them still being attracted to women. I believe it’s entirely possible for a person to be totally heterosexual… with one or two exceptions. So, that’s what Duo has decided is true for him. We’ll see how he works through the rest of it in the next chapter or so.
> 
> Why does Une give them four whole months to think through things? Well, um, honestly, I wanted Duo’s hair to have enough time to grow out. How shallow is that? Hah. But seriously, the guys have been in prison (essentially) for four years. They need time to adjust to the real world. I’m likening this to my experience living in a foreign country. The first four months are exhilarating but you don’t know your ass from your elbow. (No lie.) So the guys have four months to get reintegrated into modern culture on their own terms.


	15. Bulletproof Loneliness

# Chapter 15: Bulletproof Loneliness

_Just kind of figured on not figuring myself out…_

 

Looking back on it, I probably shouldn’t have taken off in Deathscythe.  When I set down in a secluded, wooded area within hiking distance of a highway, it occurred to me that Une was not going to be happy with me when she was informed of the Gundam that was missing from the Preventers’ hangar.  Legally, I wasn’t sure where I stood.  I mean, was Deathscythe mine?  In which case, I hadn’t stolen it?  Or was it officially evidence in the case against Dekim?

Well, regardless, the self-destruct issue needed to be taken care of and I felt much better working on it away from people.  That became my plan: untangle the mess of code that made my Gundam a ticking time bomb, then I’d call Wufei and tell him where to pick it up.  I’d take it back to Preventers HQ if I had any fuel left, but I didn’t.  I’d literally stopped where I’d run out of gas.

I spent two days not thinking in any language other than machine lingo.  Dekim’s geek brigade had made a real snarl outta my machine and I had to unravel it slowly lest I trip up and earn myself a big boom.  I nibbled through my emergency military rations, slept in the cockpit, and pissed in the forest.  It wasn’t anything close to peaceful or relaxing, but it was still a vacation of sorts.  Time away from reality.

When I rewrote the last sequence, disabling the self-destruct once and for all, I powered up the comm. system.  To my surprise, I had mail.  Well, a message, anyway.

It was from Trowa.  For a minute, I panicked.  I almost slammed my fist on the keyboard, cutting the comm. system entirely.  But then I noticed the time stamp.

I cocked my head to the side and wondered what Trowa would have wanted to say to me _right_ after we’d diffused the situation in Brussels.  If I was remembering correctly – and I’m pretty sure I was – then that’s right about when he’d made this recording.  Hell, he’d probably made it while he was waiting for me and my Gundam to be secured in the Preventers hangar.

For a minute – maybe more – I stared at the message alert, my entire body tense.  If I moved, I feared I’d shake and shudder until I scattered into pieces all over the floor.  Was I ready to hear this?  Maybe not.  Did I _need_ to hear it?  Maybe I did.  I knew that if I didn’t watch it, wondering what it said would torture me until I caved.

Biting my lower lip, I extended an unsteady hand to the Play button and pushed it.

And then I saw Trowa.  He was strapped into the pilot’s seat of Heavyarms.  The sight of him in that damn sexy zero G flight suit had me closing my eyes and turning away.  Of course, I couldn’t resist looking at him for long.  I took a deep breath and gave in.  He looked a little apprehensive – not that most people could tell, but _I_ could – and he seemed determined.  Like he was about to lay his cards on the table.

“Duo,” he began, his hands tightening around the controls.  “I don’t know when you’ll get this message.”

I watched as he took a slow, deep breath.  His lashes drifted down for a moment and he lifted a hand to touch the pendant I’d given him which was little more than a wrinkle beneath the collar of his suit.

He then looked directly into the camera and said, “Once things settle, we could… we could be together.  If you want.”

I tried to swallow.  The simple action was harder than it should have been.

“You know I have no reason to lie.”

Yeah, I knew that.  If he needed my help on an op, I’d be there.  If he wanted to air out some old shit from the past, I’d listen.  There was nothing he could tell me that would change my regard for him, no favor he could ask of me that I’d outright refuse.  It was a comfort that he understood that.

On the screen, his shoulders drooped and he looked briefly lost.  Something throbbed painfully deep within my chest in answer.  “I… I don’t know what else to say to convince you.  You, more than anyone else, know me.  Really know me.”

Maybe I did.  I just hadn’t realized it was the _real_ him I’d gotten to know.  Not until the shit had hit the fan at Preventers HQ.

“I promise I’ll… it’ll be good between us.”

 _It already is,_ I didn’t say.

He glanced down, slumping a bit into the pilot’s seat.  “That’s all,” he told the camera.  And then he reached forward to end the recording and the screen went blank.

I sat there for a while, aching and miserable.

God, but I missed him.  Or did I miss the mission, the adrenaline, the rush, the risks?  Would there be anything between us now that the very thing which brought us together has evaporated into thin air?  Did it even matter if there wasn’t?

But was I willing to take that chance?  Trowa might think he was in love with me and he might forgive me anything, but that didn’t give me the right to torture him.  And going back to him now, when I wasn’t sure if I could give him what he wanted, that would torture him.  I would never forgive myself if I woke up one morning – days, weeks, or months after going home with him and starting to build a life together – and realized I couldn’t be his husband anymore.

It irritated me that I’d spent two days hard at work, and yet nothing had gotten sorted out in the meantime.  Hell, I guess I’d been expecting a visit from the Fix It Fairy or something.  I’d hoped that once Deathscythe was taken care of, the answer to the issue of my marriage would just magically pop into my head and everything would be hunky-dory.

It wasn’t.  Dammit, I was gonna have to work through this all by myself and I could tell it was gonna be painful.  So, OK.  First, define the parameters of the situation.  Right.

Taking a deep breath, I looked at it head-on, starting with the first obstacle that came to mind.  Hell, it had always been there, even back on that damn rooftop.

I wasn’t gay, but I liked being with Trowa… even though he was a guy.

Not that I’d ever been optimistic enough to give it any real thought, but I’d kinda assumed that I’d end up with a girl who loved me and accepted me for who I was.  Someone I could be myself with.  Now, some people say that two out of three ain’t bad – and it sure as hell wasn’t Trowa’s fault that he’d been born a guy – but… saying that about Trowa… that bothered me.  It bothered me a _lot._   He deserved better than a partner who was freakin’ settling for two out of Goddamn three!  He deserved to be wanted as is, the whole damn package.  And if I couldn’t be that person, then I was obligated to step aside and let him find somebody who _did_ cherish him… without footnotes, annotations, or exceptions.

OK, fuckin’ _ouch._   I did _not_ want to think about that.

I cried uncle.  That was enough painful introspection for today.  I password protected Trowa’s message – I couldn’t bear to delete it – and sent an email off to Wufei.  I then keyed the main computer to respond to his voice signature so that he could enter the cockpit and load Deathscythe onto a truck with minimal fuss.  I tucked the manila folder on the new me into a secret pocket sewn into the inner lining of the back of my jacket.  Then, I boogied.

I still wasn’t ready to go back to reality.  I needed some time to walk and think and maybe hitchhike my way to some semi-civilization.

Maybe it was fate that I sealed up and abandoned my Gundam when I did.  Otherwise, I might not have been tempted to offer some help to the guy who was struggling with a flat tire a little ways down the road on that aforementioned highway.

“Hey, pal!  You need a hand?” I called.  When he looked up, I waved.  He waved back and I jogged the hundred or so meters down the road to where he was.

As I got closer, I realized he was an older guy, possibly old enough to be retired.  Probably had all the aches and pains that went along with his age, too.  “I can change that for ya,” I offered, wincing in sympathy as he pulled himself to his feet.

“Ah, thank you, young man.”  He straightened up and held out a hand for me to shake.  I took it.  “Guillaume Juarez,” he said.

“Joe Cross,” I replied, happy that I’d remembered to use my new name.  “Call me JC,” I added on a whim.  “You can take a load off while I fix this, if you want.”  I gestured to the passenger-side door, which was closest to the tire I’d be replacing.  That way he could sit down while still keeping an eye on me.

He accepted the offer with a relieved sigh and I crouched down on the pavement to get to work.  It looked like he’d been in the middle of trying to loosen the lug nuts.  A tentative pull with the tire iron confirmed that they were damn tight.

“Where did you come from, JC?” he asked me as I positioned myself with the tire iron handle held low, between my knees and, reaffirming my grasp on it, I used my whole body as leverage to pull up.

“Ah.  Long story,” I grunted out as I strained.  An instant later, I just about bashed my head on the side-view mirror when the bolt gave it up and rotated.  Regaining my balance – hey, I wasn’t a Gundam pilot for nuthin’! – I swung the tire iron once more before moving on to the opposite bolt.

“We may be here for a while,” he pointed out.

I laughed.  “Yeah.  True.  Well, maybe I don’t wanna get into the long version,” I told him.

He watched me work for a minute and I made it all the way to the fourth lug nut before he said, “Would you like a ride into town?”

“Sure.  That’d be great.”

It only took me about fifteen minutes to swap his flat for the spare.  It wouldn’t have taken me even that long if the damn jack handle hadn’t fallen off in my hands every other turn.  But, anyway, pretty soon we were cruising along with dusty, greasy hands and the windows down.

“Where can I drop you off?” Guillaume asked.

That was a really good question.  “Not sure.  I haven’t been in this area before.”

He frowned at me, concern beetling his brows.  “Son, do you have any money?”

I guess it was a measure of how hard-luck I looked that he’d come to that conclusion so damn fast.  I leaned an elbow on the window frame and sighed.  “Nope.”

The wind whipped at my face, which felt nice.  I hadn’t shaved in days and my hair was sweaty and my scalp itchy beneath my appropriated ball cap.  Still, I had no intention of calling Une collect and asking her to send a car for me.  No way.  I’d sleep in dumpsters first.

“I’m the reverend of a local church,” my new friend volunteered suddenly.  “There are a couple of odd jobs I’d like to hire you to do.”

I looked at him, blinking.  “I’d appreciate that,” I replied honestly.  “But you don’t have to…”

He smiled.  “At my age, I’d rather not patch a roof or climb trees myself.”

“Yeah, I guess that would be a pain.”

He wheezed out a laugh and I smiled.  “So, tell me about this town we’re heading for,” I invited and sat back and listened while he did.  It was a short drive – just thirty minutes – but it would’ve been a helluva walk.  There wasn’t much traffic out here and I wondered how long Guillaume would’ve had to wait for help to find him if I hadn’t come along.  The car itself was archaic.  There was no emergency call button that buzzed the nearest police station.  I doubted he had a cell phone.  He probably wouldn’t have been trying to change the flat himself if he did.

I was getting the feeling that the place I’d chosen was very, very rural and his description of the town confirmed it: one grocery store, two gas stations, one traffic light… 

If I blinked, I’d miss it.

I saw a fair bit of the little town as he drove over to the church.  The main street actually had a collection of shops: a jewelry and collectable coins store, a little movie theater, a diner, a furniture and interiors shop, a hardware-tractor-supply-and-feed store…  Welcome to Middle-of-Nowhere Farmville.

We pulled into the drive between a little, white house and a brick chapel.  I could see a lot of things that needed to be done to both, just from here.

“Come in and meet my wife,” Guillaume said as he put the car in park.  “It’s almost lunchtime.”

Wow, now I felt like a real loser.  “I didn’t give you a hand back there so I could bum a free lunch,” I told him.

“I know that, son, but I can’t put you to work on an empty stomach.”

I gave it the hell up.  If he was gonna kill me with kindness, I figured I’d let him.

His wife was a human dynamo.  I swear to God, the woman moved faster than an Aries suit.  She had me ensconced in the bathroom so damn fast that the path through the house was a blur.  I got cleaned up: washed my hair, shaved, that sort of thing.  She even found a pair of old sweats and a T-shirt that had probably been left behind when one of her and Guillaume’s sons had come home from college for a weekend some twenty years ago.  I put those on while she threw my grungy, funky duds in the washer.  Lunch was heavenly.  I’ve always been a sucker for home cooking and her fresh biscuits with beef stew were like a preview of heaven.

Guillaume wouldn’t let me get to work until I’d heard the story of this little town and polished off two cups of coffee.  That first day, I patched the roof on the church and trimmed the dead branches from the trees out front.  On the next, I did some regular yard work type stuff.  Guillaume brought home some cans of paint on the third day and I ended up sanding and painting the weathered shutters on the house.  I guess he must’ve mentioned me at the hardware, tractor supply, and feed store because the owner stopped by on the fourth day and said a customer was looking for someone to mend fences out on his farm.  Guillaume’s wife, Pierra, packed me a lunch and even gave me a kiss on the cheek when the farmer came to pick me up.

Somehow, not two weeks later, I found myself a spot on the local home improvement crew which served the absurdly large interiors shop downtown.  They did all kinds of crap, from building garages to putting in storm windows and screens.  Hell, I laid carpet and installed kitchen cabinets, too.  Work wasn’t exactly regular, but it left me too tired to think, which was good.

I was still staying with Reverend Juarez and his wife when the brother-in-law of the guy who owned the hardware store came over and asked what I knew about fixing cars and body work.  That’s how I ended up with a fairly stable gig at the local body shop-slash-junkyard.  I was surprised to see a few familiar faces there on my first day.  I guess a lot of the guys around town moonlighted for the interiors tycoon.

“Hey, JC!” Raymond, Bernard, and Jonas called.  I waved back on my way to the office where I signed on all the dotted lines that made my employment legal and taxable.

“So,” I said, sauntering out to the garage, grinning.  “Gimme the tool territory layout, guys, and point me in the direction of somethin’ busted.”

The comment about tool territory earned me a couple of chuckles.  From my stay with the Sweepers I knew there were certain tools that guys laid claim to, whether that tool was actually _theirs_ or not, and if you got caught usin’ it without permission, they’d drink your pocket dry in reparations.

Oh, yes.  I know well of what I speak.

So, I worked at the junkyard and garage five days a week.  The other two days, I went out on work crews to implement the nesting tendencies of the local households.  The guys teased me about my ragged haircut, which I stoutly defended – “Hey, a guy’s entitled to at least one bad haircut in his life!”  In retaliation, I harassed Raymond about his fascination with bling: “You ever get distracted by your own shiny and end up losing hours at a time from just, y’know, staring at it?”  I joshed Bernie about the beard he’d convinced himself he was growing – “Dude, two words: duck fuzz.”  I razzed Jonas about his socks every time we had to take our shoes off in someone’s house – “Man, those damn things have more holes than a government cover-up.”

Basically, I held my own.  So what if I didn’t do it with my signature panache.  The only person who’d know the difference was me and I was determined _not_ to notice.

The best part of working like a damn maniac at back-breaking jobs was the result: the momentum that rolled my ass outta bed every morning kept me going full throttle all damn day long until I collapsed on my borrowed bed at the Juarezes’ every night.  It was… well, not heaven, but as close as I could get to replicating that state of going-nowhere that left me bearably numb.  I was so busy running in place that I didn’t even think about much of anything except the here and now.

It was just what the doctor ordered.  That is, until the first dream hit.

It’d been something like eight weeks since my arrival in Nowhere Town.  I crashed and burned as usual, and then I dreamed of him, of us.  Together.  With lots of amazingly sweaty gymnastics (and several moments that had to be impossible, even for an acrobat).  I came to on a rush which was unfortunately duplicated inside my shorts.  It was all I could do to keep from calling out, from screaming, from sobbing.  It took everything I had in me to pull it together after the rest of that sleepless night and make it through the next day without putting a drill bit through my thumb.

A week passed… and then two… and then three with no more dreams and I breathed a sigh of relief.  But, as it turned out, I breathed too soon.

The next dream was worse than the first.  This time, he just held me while we relaxed on the sofa in front of the TV and watched a show about, I dunno, something insane, something you could only ever think is fascinating while inside your own dream… like the mythical talking, walking, singing mushrooms of Angkor Wat.  He leaned toward me, pressed a kiss to my temple, and I woke up biting my lip so hard I tasted blood.  I didn’t cry out though.  And I didn’t break down into a sobbing mess.  _And,_ my shorts were still clean.  Clearly, that was a victory.

The next day at work, I drank through a whole pot of motor oil masquerading as coffee before the other guys even got there.  I was damn sure they’d noticed my puffy, bloody lip, and I was equally sure they could tell it was self-inflicted, but no one accused me of overdoing it during a recent withdrawal from the Spank Bank.

I guess they could tell I wasn’t in the mood.  I hadn’t been in the mood since… well.

I buried myself in a transmission that should have been tossed into a compactor but, fuck it, I wanted to beat the hell outta something.

“Hey, guys!  Guess who!” a woman’s voice called out at about mid-morning.

Raymond groaned.  “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like!”

“Um… well, it’s on the _rear_ fender this time.”

I heard a muffled curse before a thud echoed through the garage.  I peeked over the oil-encrusted, metal monster I was wrestling with and had to hold back a bark of laughter at the sight of Raymond leaning against the nearest wall in true Drama Queen style, his forehead pressed to the dusty boards where he’d probably just banged it.

“Um, sorry,” our latest visitor-slash-customer said.  She was probably about my age, tall, leggy, and very pretty.  When she smiled, she flashed a dimple on one cheek but cocked her head to the side as if to balance it out.

Raymond took a deep breath and declared, “Someone else take this one.  If I never see that boat of your nana’s again, it’ll be too soon.”

“The boat’s back, eh?” Bernie laughed.  “Count me out.  I’ve got bad karma with that beast.”

“Uh, me, too.  I got a deadline here.”  As soon as Jonas bowed out – I shit you not – they all turned and looked at me.

“What?” I barked.  “I don’t walk on water.”  And the way they were talking, this thing sounded like nothing less than a miracle would suffice.

Jonas snickered.  “But you look like such a lightweight.”

I hefted the wrench in my grimy hand and waved it menacingly.  “I have big stick,” I grunted.  “It go bam.”

Raymond turned back to the young woman smiling bemusedly at our byplay and winked.  In a stage whisper, he told her, “Just wait until he starts quoting Shakespeare.”

“Oh?” she said and turned an expectant look on me.

“Only on the half hour,” I quipped, warming to the distraction.  I grabbed a rag and sauntered over to introduce myself.  “JC,” I said, wiping my hands.

“Alminda,” she replied, giving me a little wave.  Yeah, it looked like she’d been around grease monkeys a time or two and knew better than to shake hands.

“Show me this beast everyone’s been talking about,” I commanded.  “I’ve gotta see it for myself.”

Blushing a little, she led the way out to the front cul-de-sac where a ginormous, vintage, powder blue leviathan of personal transport crouched.

I whistled.  “Whoa.  They don’t make ‘em like this anymore,” I remarked, eying the thing.  It was fifty years old if it was a day.

“It’s my grandmother’s,” Alminda explained in a well-rehearsed tone.  Heh.  It sounded like the opening line to a story she’d already told a couple hundred times too many.  “She loves this car, but her eyesight’s getting worse and worse and she’s always bumping into things.”

“Like two-ton white rhinoceroses?” I proposed, recovering from my initial awe and catching a glimpse of the car’s owie.

She sputtered.  “A what?”

“Well, you’ve got to admit, next to that, just about any other story would be plausible.”

“I suppose it would,” she agreed.  “But… a rhinoceros?  Around here?”

I showily glanced around before leaning in and confiding, “One’s been spotted.”  I lifted a finger and hovered it over my lips to indicate the hush-hush nature of this confidence.

“I’ll be on the lookout,” she whispered back.

I nodded with mock satisfaction and turned back to the bender in the fender.  Leaning down, I checked the underside of the wheel well and saw – with some relief – that no one had tried to fill in previous dents with that damn cheap putty stuff.  I hated that shit.  And it was a shortcut that would disgrace a car like this.

“Hm, OK.  I’ll see what I can do.  How long do I have?”

She did that tilted-head-and-dimple thing again.  “Before Sunday?  She’ll want to drive it to church.”

“Saturday evening at the latest, then,” I agreed, mentally cracking my knuckles.

She lingered on the drive, wiggling the toe of her tennis shoe through the loose gravel until it occurred to me that she was waiting for something.  I glanced up and followed her gaze as she looked toward the keys where they were dangling in the ignition.  “Well, if I’m leaving the car here…”

Oh.  Right.  Duh!  “You need a ride anywhere?” I asked, feeling like a real jerk for not thinking of it sooner.

The dimple-and-tilt returned.  “That would be great.  Would you…?”

Uh, well, I guess I could.  “Hold on,” I said and ducked into the office to appraise the boss and grab a set of keys off the board.  The shop had a couple of loaner cars.  I selected one at random.

“Be gentle on the transmission,” he told me, giving me a look I didn’t really know how to interpret.

“Right.”

So, I drove Alminda over to her grandmother’s house where her car was parked.  It was a bit out-of-the-way so we chatted about this and that.  I kept her talking about her family and her university studies (she was on summer holiday at the moment) so she wouldn’t ask me any questions.  When we pulled into the drive of a slightly weathered two-story farmhouse, I noticed that one of the trees in front looked a little battered around the trunk and the free-standing mailbox was shiny and new.

“Looks like prime white rhino territory,” I observed, nodding to each.

Alminda laughed.  “Yeah,” she replied, sounding both exasperated and amused.  “It’s a regular crossing around here.”

I almost asked how often her grandma played front yard pinball in her classic car, but decided I’d save it for the guys back at the garage.  They’d probably exaggerate, but it’d be funny.  If I asked Alminda, it’d just be embarrassing.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said as I braked gently to a stop.

“Er, thanks for bringing in your grandma’s car,” I answered, trying not wince at my lame customer service skills.

She grinned.  Opening the car door, she said, “You say that now…”

“Right.”

She got out and waited in the drive as I backed out onto the road, waving when I shifted into first gear.  I lifted a hand in acknowledgement and then I was cruising back to work along the forested country road, frowning.  Alminda might’ve had a point about me speaking too soon.  Later that afternoon, I confirmed it.

The car was freakin’ cursed.  I was sure of it.  Every effort I made to smooth out the dent was met with one damn thing after another from cracks in the paint to discovering hidden rust deposits.  Oh yeah.  This was a frickin’ barrel of laughs.  At least the guys thought so whenever I’d start up cursing time and time again.  At the end of the day, I didn’t leave work so much as slunk away to lick my damn wounds.

“I’ll be back, you stubborn bastard,” I told it.  “So don’t get too comfortable.”

Its chrome detailing winked at me in the lamplight. 

It took me three days, but I prevailed.  With the aid of heat lamps which helped to soften the metal just enough for the rubber mallet to make a noticeable difference, I got the fender whipped into shape.  Then I came out with the sander to round off the uneven lumps before I repainted the whole damn section.  Hell, I took it a step further and reinforced the side facing the wheels and frame with neo-steel sheeting.

“Damn, JC.  Now _that’s_ dedication,” Bernie remarked when I went ahead and strengthened the other three fenders.  The next time grannie kissed a tree, the tree probably wouldn’t survive but, by God, the body of the damn car would hold its freakin’ shape.

“Watch out, man,” Jonas told me.  “If you fix it too well, ‘Mindy won’t have as many excuses to come by.”

When he grinned and winked, I picked up on the subtext which had nuthin’ whatsoever to do with fleecing an old lady outta her retirement fund and everything to do with having a little pretty scenery to look forward to from time to time.

I snorted.  “Just ask her out, buddy.  Then you can see her all you want.”

Jonas blinked and then snickered.  “You’ve seen how small this town is, right?”

“Huh?”  I was missing something here.

He explained, “Alminda’s my first cousin’s niece by marriage.”

Ah.  I glanced at Bernie to see what his excuse was.

“We dated in high school,” he admitted sheepishly, a wealth of history buried in his tone.

“Ray?” I asked, including an expectant look this time.

“Her sister’s engaged to my step-brother.”

I just shook my head at the wonders of small town life and got the hell back to work.

The car was ready early on Saturday, so I called Alminda’s grandmother to let her know.  She told me in a smart, crisp tone – the type matriarchs always use – that she’d have Alminda drive her over to pick it up bright and early on Sunday morning.

“We’ll be here,” I promised.

Sundays were usually pretty quiet at the garage.  All the guys in the mechanics bay had the morning off so they could attend Reverend Juarez’s sermon, so it was just me and the boss as I got ready to tinker around with a couple of oil changes and a grumpy muffler.

At nine-thirty on the button, Alminda pulled up in her car with a stately-looking lady riding shotgun, both wearing their Sunday bests.  The boss handled the money stuff with Alminda while I explained to the car’s mistress exactly what I’d done.

“Very thorough,” she approved, laying a manicured hand on the hood.

“You’ve had this vehicle a long time?” I guessed, reading into the gesture.

“It belonged to my late husband’s father,” she told me.  “He bought it new and my husband borrowed it to take me to the Maturaball.”

“Sounds like it was a magical night,” I remarked.  I’d never been to a formal high school dance.  Hell, with the exception of the prep schools I hid out in during the war, I’d never been to _high school._

“It was,” she answered.

Now that was history.  I could imagine that landmark moment between two high school sweethearts.  It made my chest ache suspiciously when I pictured it.

There was an awkward moment when I saw Alminda off.  She seemed to be waffling over something but, in the end, she just said, “I’ll see you around?”

Since the town was pretty damn small, that seemed highly likely, so I answered, “Undoubtedly.”

She drove off smiling.

It wasn’t until the following Friday that I was clued in to the fine print of life in a countryside village.

I came in on Thursday after a “day off” (during which I’d worked my ass off laying linoleum in a remodeled kitchen and delivering a ready-made garden shed) and schlepped over to the metal cubby board which served as our mail station-slash-inboxes.

“What’s this?” I asked, holding up a slip of lined notebook paper with Alminda’s name and number written on it.  Someone had slipped it into my mail slot along with a memo from a secondhand parts supplier I’d called on Monday.  (Apparently, they’d decided to get back to me while I wasn’t here.  Heh.  Figures.)

“Is there a problem with the Boat?”  This question I directed at my boss, but he just shrugged.  Scowling in thought, I headed for the garage and quizzed the other guys.  Raymond was off today, but Bernie and Jonas just gave me that “Who?  Me?” expression that made them look guilty as hell.

I rolled my eyes at them and just got the hell to work.  Clearly, if it was important, there would’ve been a message included, so I put it out of my mind.

The next day (the aforementioned fateful Friday), I was helping Raymond install a radiator when he asked, out of the blue, “So, did you call her yet?”

“Who?” I asked distractedly.  I hated working with clamps and hoses.  Damn freakin’ inefficient piece-of-shit fluid system.  The hydraulics and cooling apparatus in Deathscythe were far more—

“Alminda!”

I looked up in time to see him roll his eyes at me.

“Er, why?” I asked stupidly.  If there was a problem with the work I’d done, wouldn’t her grandmother have called to ream me out?

“You dipshit,” he replied just short of laughing in my face.  “To ask her out, of course.”

Of course.

Whoa.  Wait up.

“What?”

“Well, you’re sweet on her, right?”  He made it sound like a foregone conclusion.

I blinked at him as if he was speaking Swahili or something.

He frowned.  “That’s why you were asking about her last week.”  He waited for me to refute his evidence but I was just too numb to even think.  “So, call her.  Ask her out.”

“I can’t do that,” I replied woodenly.

“Sure you can!  There’s a new matinee showing at the cinema this weekend.  If you ask for the day off—”

I cut him off.  “No, man.  I _can’t._   I’m married.”

If asked later, I wouldn’t have been able to say with any certainty but it sure as hell seemed to me that all work in the garage stopped in that instant.  It was that kind of moment, anyway.

Raymond just gawped at me.  He glanced at my hands and I resisted the urge to fist them.  He didn’t say it, but I knew what he was thinking: I’d never worn a ring.  Finally, he said, “You never mentioned a wife.”

No, I wouldn’t have, would I?

I sighed.  My throat was dry and aching.  My heart was pounding.  With two words, I’d blasted open the doors I’d been bracing shut for the past three months and all the questions and what-if’s I’d been running from just _exploded_ in my brain.  A headache flared to life, throbbing in my temples.

“Look, just… pass it on, OK?”  I figured that was the least he and his hyper-active matchmaking buddies could do.

“Uh, sure, JC.  Sorry.”

I could tell that all of them were perplexed, but no one was willing to push me.  I hid my face under the hood for the rest of the damn day and then I went out of my way after work to stop by the town’s ramshackle bar to see a man about a cure for dry throats and headaches.

That’s where Guillaume found me about an hour after dinnertime.  I was on my third beer and wondering when the alcohol was gonna start kicking in.

He eased himself onto the stool beside mine at the bar and ordered a cup of coffee.  Rusty, the bartender, slid it over in silence and then shared a look with the good reverend before making himself scarce.

“Huh,” I remarked.  “So that’s how you knew where to find me.”

“Yes.  Rusty called.”

Welcome to Smallville.  “Hm.”

I sipped my beer and he sipped his coffee.  I could tell he was waiting for me to volunteer something only I didn’t feel much like talking.

“What’s your wife’s name?” he eventually asked me and I grunted out a laugh.  Hell, the guys at the garage sure hadn’t wasted any time passing it on like I’d asked.  Who knew that gossip was an actual _sport_ in some areas of the world, eh?

“My husband’s name,” I replied with deliberate slowness, “is Tr—istan.”  Damn.  I’d almost used his wartime and WEI-time name.  The new one wasn’t any easier to say, though.  It still left me feeling raw.

“How long have you been married?”

I did the math.  “Thirteen weeks.”  Twelve of which I’d spent here.

Guillaume digested this for a moment before he pressed once again, “Do you love him?”

The hell!  I had to grit my teeth against the sheer… _whatever_ that rolled up inside me and nearly burst from my mouth in the form of a scream.  My hands tightened around my sweating beer glass.  “Yes,” I heard myself say, and the moment it came out, I knew it was true.  The roiling storm within me settled.

Again, we lapsed into silence.

Again, Guillaume broke it.  “You have a lot to offer a spouse, JC,” he told me and I had to close my eyes against the echo of a memory: _“I thought I might have something to offer you after all.”_

“You are honest, hardworking, and warmhearted,” Guillaume continued.  “You make friends easily but not recklessly.  You’re smart and skilled at many things.”

“I fought in the war,” I said out of a perverse need to counterbalance all of the good points he’d just raised.  “I killed a lot of people.”

“Do you feel that your past in some way diminishes who you are now?”

No.  No, I didn’t.  Even Shinigami was silent when it was put that way.  “It made me who I am now.”

“Do you fear it will somehow taint your marriage?”

Considering Trowa’s past… no.  We were pretty much even on that score.  “No.”

“Then tell me something else,” he prompted and I knew what he wanted.

I gave him my next excuse: “I’m an orphan.”

He thought about this for a minute, probably thinking that I’d walked out on my husband before he could do the same to me.  He inquired tentatively, “Do you not trust your husband?”

The very idea was laughable.  Maybe the alcohol _was_ working because I actually did laugh.  It didn’t sound right, though.  More like spastic hiccups than mirth.  “He’s earned my trust a thousand times over.”

“So you do not trust yourself or your judgment?”

“No, I’m a good judge of character.  I knew what I was doing when I asked him to marry me.”

Guillaume sighed.  I knew I wasn’t giving him much to work with, here.  I couldn’t tell him about the mission, not really, but I could say _something._

“I needed help,” I confided.  “I needed someone to be there for me when things got rough—”  And boy did they ever!  “—but then, when we made it through, I didn’t know… I wasn’t sure…  I mean, was I the same person or…?”

“JC,” Guillaume said slowly, feeling his way as he groped for words.  “I’ll tell you a secret.”

I stopped staring blindly at my now-flat beer and looked at him.

“When I was your age, I was in serious trouble.  I was cocky and full of myself.  A rebel, I suppose you could say.  I painted graffiti around town.  Shoplifted.”  His wrinkled lips smoothed into a rueful grin.  “Pierra and I had known each other since grade school.  We grew up together.  And when I went bad, she came after me.  For a long time, I wouldn’t let her save me, but then I realized something.”

He paused there and waited until I threw up my hands and said, “OK, I’ll bite.  What was it?”

“She made me a better person.  When I was with her, I _liked_ who I was.”

I felt a chill dance down my spine.

“Every person is unique, and every time we interact with other people, a different version of ourselves emerges.  Sometimes the variations are slight and sometimes they aren’t.  And, very rarely, you can make each other _better._   If you’re lucky enough to meet someone who helps you be the best version of yourself that you can be – and if that’s the case for both of you – then there is no issue that is truly insurmountable.”

There on that bar stool, a stale beer clutched in my hands, I was laid bare and forced to look into the light of truth.  The truth was I _liked_ who I was when I was with Trowa.

But was I capable of being his husband in every sense of the word?  Days _and_ nights?  I didn’t know but, dammit, I wanted to try.  I’d do whatever I had to in order to work through my hang-ups and issues.  Sex with Trowa wasn’t anything like what I’d seen of same-sex interactions on the streets.  No one was being used.  No one was in charge.  The balance of power wasn’t like that at all.  In fact, simply being with him (sex or no sex) made me feel _stronger, better, more._   Guillaume had hit the target at ten kilometers: I was different with Trowa; he made me that way.  When I was with him, I felt like I was the person I was _meant_ to be.  I’d liked that Duo Maxwell who’d been Trowa Barton’s husband.  I’d liked him a lot.  He wasn’t perfect, but nobody was.  And, what’s more, Trowa hadn’t minded that I was flawed, not as long as I’d kept trying to meet him halfway.

With that realization came the impetus to give up the shadow world I’d been clinging to.  It was time to stop living my life as a shell of myself and actually _be_ myself.  And the me I wanted to be included Trowa.  It would be scary as hell, but we’d made a promise to each other to help one another stand, to stand _together,_ to face whatever came our way as a team.

Really, it all boiled down to one inevitable fact.  You can want – even love – a lot of things in your life that are bad for you, detrimental to your health or some such, but only a moron would turn away from something that made his life qualitatively better.

I turned back to Guillaume and, ignoring how oddly blurry he looked at the moment and how hot and watery my eyes suddenly felt, I grinned.  “Thanks, Reverend.  For everything you’ve done for me.”

“It was our pleasure, son,” he said, speaking for himself and his wife.

Right then, a searing wave of want flashed through me: I wanted that certainty, that unit-ness.  I wanted to know – deep down _know –_ that Trowa and I had an _our,_ that we were an _us_ , that – together – we were a whole.  No, better than a whole; together, we’d be more than the sum of our separate selves.  It sounded like something that ought to defy the laws of physics, right?  I guess that was why it appealed so damn much.

I abandoned my beer and stood up.  Laying a few bills on the bar to cover my tab and Guillaume’s coffee, I said, “I’m gonna need a ride to the station in the morning.  I think I’m ready to head home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Farmville” is based on my mother’s hometown in rural Michigan… but they have two stop lights, not one. (^__~) But, seriously, small town relations are hilarious. Imagine finding out that you’re crushing on your cousin’s wife’s nephew/niece. Ugh. Creepy.


	16. Broken Down on Memory Lane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we finally hear from Trowa! He's all about backstory, as it it turns out (hence the past perfect tense all over the place), but there is a new development in the story near the end of the chapter. I hope you enjoy his voice. He's a very serene (yet focused) character to write. I guess that's because he exerts so much control over himself and his mind. (Well, my version of him does, anyway.) Where Duo is a total chatterbox (as a narrator), only a few rebellious thoughts manage to slip past Trowa's guard.

# Chapter 16: Broken Down on Memory Lane

_I cast a spell over the west to make you think of me the same way I think of you..._

_“Spousal privilege!”_

When Duo had leaned back and proudly crowed those two words, my entire being had just stopped.  My heart had thudded to a halt, waiting for the inevitable punch line.  Duo always had a punch line.

I’d tried to tease him back – I’d done my best to soften the blow I’d known was coming – and I’d asked, “Is that a proposal?”  I’d meant for it to come out a bit dry, a good setup for the joke.  Duo counted on me for that, I knew.  I liked giving him the perfect openings for his one-liners.  I liked it a little too much… _most_ of the time.  That evening, though, with the sun setting on the far distant horizon, I’d wished for indifference.  But the instant the words had left my mouth, I’d known that I’d failed.  I was looking at him – _really_ looking at him like I’d been trying not to do for months upon months – and, despite myself, I was _hoping._

I hoped far too much.  Any hope at all invited disappointment.  I’d learned this lesson well in my lifetime but, where Duo was concerned, I had apparently lost my mind.

And my heart.

But it hadn’t been a joke, neither had the kiss which had followed.  I’d never let myself imagine him permitting that, but he had.  Oh, I’d known it had all been for the sake of a mission of some sort: I knew he needed a partner and he needed the pretense of being married.  I hadn’t understood why he’d chosen me but, at the time, I hadn’t cared.  Not when I’d been sitting beside him on the roof of the building nor when he’d turned the tables and kissed me outside my door.

After the fact, when I’d retreated to my room and reaction had set in, I’d realized I was shocked at myself for offering to let him come inside.  I’d lectured myself not to get caught up in the moment; I’d been battling an infatuation with him for years and this burst of emotion was only a kind of release, an explosion of years’ worth of pent-up feelings.  Things would settle.  But, in the meantime, there was no reason why I couldn’t really _be_ his fiancé. 

And then it’d occurred to me that Duo had essentially given me carte blanche to court him.  I could touch him now.  I could kiss him.  And – if I bought his line about being a good catholic boy and took the implication seriously – once we were married, I could—!

Well, possibly.

I wasn’t sure how far Duo would go to maintain appearances or how desperately he’d cling to one excuse after another – like that catholic line – to keep me at a comfortable distance, but I’d take as much as he’d give, venture as far as he’d permit.  I’d show him what kind of partner I could be.  And maybe, if I was incredibly lucky and fate inconceivably kind, Duo might _choose_ to be with me… even after the mission was over.

It was a mad plan.  Utterly insane.  Heero had been right to call me a gambler.  I was gambling with my heart.  And, given the fact that I could not be an objective partner in whatever mission Duo was undertaking, I was also gambling with his life.

Things could have turned out so badly and it would have been completely and undeniably my fault.

But, at the time, I’d been drowning in my new freedoms with Duo.  I could see how hard he struggled to let himself be mine, even for the sake of the mission.  He wanted it enough to make it work, to make our deepening relationship seem genuine, but then, somewhere along the line, I think those changes actually _became_ genuine.  He genuinely started to want _me._

It hadn’t been the gift of the necklace.  Though I’d treasure it always, that had not been the moment.  It hadn’t been the swim or the following shared shower.  I would never forget handling his hair for the first time, becoming part of a ritual he must have upheld for however long it had taken to grow his hair to that length.  I’d known his braid was important to him; it had survived innumerable close calls, pilot training, and the war – only part of what I’m sure he has endured in his lifetime – and it was perhaps as tough as the leather that made up my necklace.  But that moment under the shower spray had not been _the_ moment, either.

I’m reasonably certain it had happened in the first floor store of all places.  Duo had tilted his face up and let me kiss him in a public space that wasn’t just this side of personal domain.  I think _that_ was the defining instant.  Of course, I’d confiscated his boots thereafter, guarding them while he’d tried on suits.  I had not been prepared for Duo Maxwell to run and hide from me.  But he hadn’t done that at all.  He’d still fought me, but it was a losing battle.  The kiss I’d given him in front of our friends on the eve of our wedding confirmed it.  I would have him for as long as I could.

And then either I would have to let him go or he’d choose to stay.

I’d been heartened by his kiss in the chapel.  He’d been seeking something with that, and I’d offered myself, hoping it would be enough.  It hadn’t been until later that evening, as I’d stood facing him, my body tense and blood roaring as I’d held his undone necktie in my hand that I’d acknowledged my hope.  When he’d leaned toward me, said my name…!

It was bliss.  He was all I wanted.  And then I’d had him beneath me on the bed and it was every desire I’d never let myself contemplate… until he’d pulled away and panted for me to stop.  I hadn’t been surprised.  Not really.  I’d pushed too hard, too fast.  I’d promised myself I’d go slow; I’d let him come to me…

I’d ruined my chance.

But then, amazingly, he hadn’t let go of me.  He’d held on and he’d asked what I wanted and then he’d _agreed._

There were no words to describe it.  And its perfection had been increased twentyfold when he’d said my name as he’d found his pleasure.  _Mine._   Borrowed, stolen, or otherwise ill-gotten, Trowa _was_ my name and Duo had been thinking of _me._

Did I dare hope I could be more than his friend?  Could I be his anchor – his _lover_ – as he was mine?

He’d fought me again after that, foregoing his usual stop by the maintenance closet the following morning.  Despite all his kindness and humor, I could see the challenge and rebellion in his eyes that afternoon at lunch.  I let him have it.  We were married.  I had time.

Or did I?

That night, while I’d waited for him to return from infiltrating the building crawlspace, I’d realized that things were still moving forward.  How long would it be before the mission hit its main objective and lives hung in the balance?  And when he’d returned carrying an empty plastic bottle with droplets of blue liquid clinging to the inside, I’d _known_ – I’d simply _known –_ what he’d done and what price he might end up paying before the end.

As Duo would say, I’d freaked the hell out.  I’d had to make sure he was safe, that he hadn’t inhaled a damaging amount of fumes or gotten any minute traces of the cleanser in his eyes.  But that hadn’t been enough.  I’d needed for him to be completely clean, completely safe.  I’d needed his hair washed and his nails scrubbed.  He’d just risked his life and I’d known what that signified.  Change was coming.  He might be taken from me or I from him and I wasn’t ready, not after I’d just _found_ him, _had_ him, _made love to him!_

I could have ruined everything that night.  If he had told me no, I don’t think I could have stopped.  Nonetheless, I’d touched him without his expressed permission – something I’d told myself I’d never do, no matter what.  I’d justified it by weighing the infraction against our dwindling time together: if that was destined to be our last chance, then I’d wanted there to be no denying that he wanted _me._

I’d anticipated that he’d run and hide after that, as much as he was able.  It had occurred to me as I’d dumped his clothes in the bath to soak that I might have just destroyed his trust in me as well.  But, when I’d dared to enter the bedroom, he hadn’t wanted me to take off the necklace.  He hadn’t asked me to keep my distance.  He had, in fact, recruited my assistance in dealing with his hair.

My relief had turned into desire so fast I’d been dazed.  Thankfully, the power had gone out then.  Locating and setting up the emergency lanterns had permitted me a moment to get myself under control.  I could not afford to push him a second time in one evening.  I’d done the only thing I could: I’d put a buffer between myself and Duo.  I’d thought he’d appreciate the space.

He hadn’t.  He’d come after me.  I’d wanted him so badly that I couldn’t pull away, couldn’t hide it… and then he’d agreed.

Waiting for him on the bed had been one of the most nerve-wracking moments of my life.  And then he was there and I was ceding to him and his touch…  It was unparalleled.  Afterwards, when I was sated and floating in tingling warmth, I’d felt him move away even though he was still fully hard.  Suddenly, I’d realized what he’d done, what he was still doing.  He was running again.  Hiding and denying.  It had chafed, but I’d known when to surrender ground.  I’d let him keep his control.  Not eight hours later, he lost it in my arms.

What I wouldn’t give to wake up like that every morning for the rest of my life, to hold him against me, wrap my limbs around him, and feel him moving, feel his breath hot against my neck, hear the soft noises he makes whenever we touch.  Perfection.   So naturally, it couldn’t last.

Opening my eyes to the sight of him sitting beside our bed, fully dressed and ready for the next phase of the mission had eviscerated me.  Hell, the whole mission had eviscerated me.  I’d lost count of the number of times I’d nearly thrown up from pure worry over him.  Not just because I wanted him, either.

Duo was so much more than just an object of obsession for my hormones to rally around.  He was the one who, more than anyone else, had never let my silence intimidate him.  He’d never seen my self-containment as an obstacle to being my friend over the years.  In fact, his unwavering devotion to treating me like someone worth knowing had eventually convinced me that I _was_ worth knowing.  The kid No-name was gone, or had grown up into someone deserving of friendship.  I was _somebody._   Duo thought so and, with him blazing a trail, the other pilots had followed suit.

Not that the others had ever ignored me intentionally, but they’d always seemed reluctant to approach me.  They honored my nonverbal request for space and time to myself.  But, by the end of our first month in WEI, the kid gloves had come off, so to speak, and I was suddenly included in the brotherhood that had tentatively blossomed at the end of the war.  All because Duo had gone the extra mile to poke and prod at me until he was sure he _knew_ me, until I’d started to know myself.  I’d become somebody, thanks to his tenacity.  It was at that point that I’d realized just how much I _liked_ being somebody.  In fact, I wanted to be somebody’s somebody.  I wanted to be _Duo’s._

That thought had gotten squashed and locked away.  Duo was straight – at least, I was pretty sure he was – and I’d never have a chance with him.  What did I have to offer him, anyway?  Nights disrupted by nightmares?  An unremarkable life of hopeful anonymity?  Duo deserved more.

But then he’d asked me to marry him.  I had not been capable of saying no.

“Does he know you’re in love with him?” Heero had interrogated me on our last Friday at WEI just as the clock had struck five p.m.

“That’s none of your business,” I’d replied, only mildly surprised that Heero had figured out my feelings for Duo.  Something Duo (or I) had said or done had apparently alerted him to the fact that things were not as they seemed, that our engagement wasn’t just for the sake of a mission.  Heero was concerned on my behalf, and I appreciated that, but it was my life and my choice.

Quatre had stood nearby, ready to mediate but keeping his opinion to himself.  I could only take heart from that.  Surely, Quatre would warn me if he sensed nothing more than friendship from Duo.  Surely he wouldn’t be so cruel as to give me hope by omitting something so important.

“Tell him,” Heero had ordered.  “Before the wedding.”

“Your opinion has been noted.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m in love,” I’d responded and, as far as I was concerned, the two were synonymous with each other.  Then I’d walked out of Quatre’s office to return my cleaning cart to the closet and find my fiancé.

I think I’d sought out Duo, in part, to spite Heero.  Seeing Duo wrestling with Heero the day before had bothered me.  Watching them together, I’d wondered if Duo would call off the wedding, if he’d prefer Heero to be his partner… but he hadn’t.  I’d never believed in God – or any god, for that matter – but in that moment, standing in the gym and hearing Duo say he’d missed me, I’d nearly thanked the Almighty.  Duo had still wanted me.  _Me._

I vowed to be the partner he needed.  That task, as it turned out, had gotten harder and harder as time went on.  I’d more or less held my breath throughout our extraction.  I hadn’t been able to be anything other than hyper alert during the shuttle flight.  Alert and afraid that old ghosts were about to be risen from the past.  A lowly mechanic like me had never been invited into the inner circle of the Barton Foundation and I’d seen very little of the actual project beyond what had gone on in the mobile suit hangar, but I’d heard rumors about the ringleader behind it all – a man named Dekim Barton – and the colony – X18999 – he was planning on sacrificing for the sake of Operation Meteor.

When our shuttle’s destination had finally been revealed… well.  I hadn’t wanted to leap to conclusions and it would have been pointless to try to communicate my suspicions to Duo.  He’d been just as tense as I, just as aware of how dangerous the situation could become.  Besides, what had I really known?  Nothing current enough to be pertinent.  I hadn’t wanted to risk rocking the boat until our new friends revealed themselves for who they really were and what they wanted.  Being met by Mariemeia had only confirmed the fact that our patron was as careful as we were.  Thus, the dance had begun and, with Duo beside me, I’d known I couldn’t possibly have asked for a better partner.

And he’d proved me right.

Once we’d been shown to our assigned rooms and had begun checking the place over, seeing those… _things_ in the bedside bureau, those things which had blatantly mocked the long-secret desire of my once-stone-cold heart, I’d snapped.  And, shockingly, Duo had forgiven me, he’d teased me, and he’d said yes to me when I’d confessed to wanting him again.  What he hadn’t known was that I wanted him every minute of the day.  I wanted him forever.  I’d been telling the truth when I’d told him I played for keeps.

_Keep me, Duo.  Please.  Keep me._

I could hope he’d heard the words I hadn’t said while he’d lain awake, taking the first watch.  The fact that he’d volunteered to let me rest first… that meant something, I was sure.  Then, the moment in the tunnel, when he’d promised to stand _with_ me – _together_ – that had meant something as well.  It’d been those two moments that I’d drawn upon as I’d watched his braid being sliced off on the orders of that bastard, Dekim Barton.

I’d almost screamed.  I’d almost launched myself at the nearest gun and taken them all down right then and there, but I trusted Duo.  And when I’d next met his eyes, the fire that I loved – the fire that had drawn me to him from the first moment we’d met, when he’d come at me in Deathscythe and we’d ended up fighting right there on the tarmac at the Alliance’s New Edwards Base – had still been burning, and burning bright.

After that, we’d distracted ourselves from the tightrope we’d been walking there on X18999 as best we could with humor.  The possibility of failure had never terrified me before, but I’d suddenly had something other than my own life – which I’d long ago deemed worthless – to lose.  I could lose Duo.

_Not acceptable!_

In the end, it hadn’t mattered.  No, of course not.  In the end, I’d watched him walk away from me.  He’d promised to be in touch.  He’d said he just needed to sort some things out.  I knew – intellectually – that it hadn’t been _me_ he was rejecting.  I knew he liked me, trusted me.  Maybe even loved me, in his way.  I knew we needed this space to clear our heads and figure out what was going to happen next.

That didn’t mean I had to like it.

I spent the following twelve weeks being invisible.  I worked the nightshift at a convenience store, going by my new name.  I went back to my hole-in-the-wall apartment every morning, closing my eyes just to avoid the dawn and another empty day, trying not to think about Duo out there, meeting women and letting them take him home.  Or maybe he was pushing his limits with men (and I didn’t doubt that Duo’s contrary nature had the potential to lead him down such a path) just to see if he could like it, want it, choose it of his own free will.  It was pure torment to think of him letting someone else – _anyone_ else – touch him when I’d give anything for the privilege.  It was easier to hide in the tentative realm of sleep – to stop existing for a few short hours – than to face those thoughts.  But no matter how hard I tried, the things I most wanted to disappear from were still there when I opened my eyes.

The truth was always lying in wait for me.

I still loved Duo.  I wanted him.  I missed him.  I wasn’t myself without him.  Or, maybe I _was_ myself without him: my _old_ self, my _former_ self.  I didn’t want to be that nameless, invisible nobody anymore.  I wanted to be special.  I wanted to be the way I was when he was around and focusing all his considerable energy on baiting, teasing, joking, deciphering, confiding…

Waiting was hard, but it was better than a confrontation that might end in a flat-out refusal of my suit.  As long as I was waiting, there was a chance – a small chance, but a chance nonetheless – that he’d miss me, too.

Eighty-seven days since I’d watched him walk away, my video phone rang.  I nearly gave myself a concussion as I dived over the chair to answer it.  And it wasn’t even Duo.

“Wufei,” I greeted, trying to hide the look on my face that probably made even the unimaginative Chang Wufei think I’d just dropped my heart into the trash can and set it on fire.

He didn’t ask me how I was.  I don’t think I could have answered if he had.  He didn’t ask me if I’d heard from Duo or if I’d been to the house – _our_ house – yet.  Instead, he said, “All these damn women are driving me insane.”

I almost laughed.  I almost thanked some anonymous higher power for Wufei.  He always knew when to shut up and when to rant about inconsequential irritations.  And then, just as I was starting to feel a bit better, just as something smart and cynical danced on the tip of my tongue, someone knocked on his office door.  He asked me to hold on a moment when I would have simply hung up.  My finger was hovering over the disconnect button when I heard his voice – _Duo’s_ voice – muffled by distance.

“Hell, Wufei, aren’t you happy to see me?”

I would have given everything I owned to see him.  I snatched my hand away from the keyboard, holding my breath.

“Extremely,” Wufei replied so drolly I almost didn’t hear the word itself amongst the sarcasm.  “You had better tell the director that you’re back.”

“Why, so she can arrest me?”

“So she can thank you for dealing with the threat your Gundam posed the general populace, and then having the brains to see that it was secured.”

“Oh.  I was wondering how she’d take it.”

Duo had been monumentally stupid to take off in his Gundam which I’d been told was officially state’s evidence against Dekim Barton.  At least the engineers had made a copy of the machine’s hard drive before Duo had decided to sort out the self-destruct problem on his own, thereby erasing Une’s precious evidence.  Still, thinking of Duo out there in the middle of nowhere, tinkering with code, one mistake away from blowing himself up made me want to destroy something with my bare hands, so I stopped thinking about it.

“Um, look,” Duo began uncertainly, breaking the awkward silence that had begun to stretch out.  “I need to get a message to Trowa.”

“I am not your secretary, Maxwell!”

“You damn well are!” he hollered back.  “You’re our Goddamned contact or handler or whatever the fuck Une’s calling it.”

“A piece of advice, Maxwell,” Wufei said calmly after a moment.  “Call your future boss _Director_ Une.”

“What makes you think I’m gonna sign away my soul like you and join up with this whole damn rat race, eh?”

“You want peace.  Just like the rest of us.”

Wufei has always known exactly when and how to strike – hard and fast and accurate, leaving his victim left holding his own guts in his hands and wondering what had just happened.  Now was no exception.

“I need you to tell Trowa something for me,” Duo repeated after a long moment of silence.

“Do you love him?”

I winced as my heart stopped, strained, and started beating backwards.

“I appreciate that you’re trying to look out for a friend,” came the hoarse reply, “but there is no way in Hell or on this Goddamn green Earth that I’m gonna tell _you_ that.”

“What do you want from him?”

I listened as Wufei interrogated my husband about his intentions toward me.  I could have told Wufei that it wouldn’t work, but the fact that Duo was so passionate in his irritation at Wufei’s meddling told me he cared.  He cared enough to keep our private things private still.

“Tell him I’ll be at the house this time next week,” Duo growled and I inhaled so fast the air burned my lungs which, in turn, bashed and bruised my heart.  Then, in response to perhaps a glare from Wufei, he added, “Everything else I have to say, I’m saying to him and him alone.”

At that point, Wufei stepped behind the desk again and glanced at the video screen just to make sure I was still here, still listening, still clinging pathetically to every word being said.  I nodded; I’d be there.  I’d damn well be there with _bells_ on.

Wufei’s mouth lifted at the corners.  Looking up again, he said, “I’ll make sure he knows.”

I listened to the sound of Duo’s combat boots scuffing on the carpet tiles as he headed for the door.

Wufei called after him.  “And get a haircut in the meantime!”  A moment later, Wufei’s lips twitched helplessly before he could suppress a self-satisfied smile; I deduced that Duo must’ve replied with one of his favorite non-verbal gestures.  I wondered which one he’d used this time.

Wufei’s office door slammed shut and I disconnected without a word.  My fists clenched upon the table on either side of the keyboard.  My head was too blank and my chest too full.  I closed my eyes, bowed my head, gritted my teeth.  A week.  I’d see Duo in a week.  It was almost cruel, knowing I had so many days ahead of me.  But the relief – it would be over soon! – was there, too.  But… what if it was over _forever?_

_Duo didn’t leave **you.**_

I knew this.  He’d been very clear on that.  He hadn’t walked away from _me._   He’d walked away from the mission, from the fiction, from the pretense.  Could I hope that there was still something left now that the dust had settled?  Could I hope that he’d come back?  That we could build something other than sandcastles from the debris?

If, by some miracle, he still chose me, I swore to myself that I’d consider the last twelve weeks erased.  I wouldn’t ask him where he’d been, what he’d done, who he’d been with.  If being with a hundred different women (or men) sent him back to me, I’d be grateful and leave it at that.  Just… just…

_Keep me._

I could tell already that the coming week would be a nightmare.  Not as horrible as the one I’d had on our wedding night – there would be no enemy mobile suits hovering nearby, no threats of betrayal from former comrades, no sounds of gunfire, and (most importantly) I would not end up pulling Duo’s body out of a still-smoldering suit that I, The Silencer, had just shot down in cold indifference – but the next seven days were going to be hell, nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so now we all know what Trowa’s been thinking. If you ever re-read this fic from the beginning, you’ll hopefully spot all of the signs that point right to these very thoughts. Enjoy the read-it-again if you, you know, read it again.


	17. Sweet Avalanche

# Chapter 17: Sweet Avalanche

_I’m addicted to the way that I feel when I think of you…_

 

I slammed Wufei’s office door behind me, fuming and furious with myself.  Why had I said I’d be there in a week?  A whole Goddamn week!  What the hell did I think I needed all that freakin’ time for?  So I could swim across the fucking North Atlantic and hitchhike cross-country to our house?  Trim my Goddamn hair one strand at a frickin’ time?  The hell!

But, when I stopped ranting about it, I knew damn well why I’d set the date for a week from now.  I wanted Trowa to have at least that much warning, at least that much time to figure out what he wanted now that I was finally ready to lay my cards on the table.  If he took me back impulsively (although, yeah, it was kinda hard to imagine Trowa doing much of anything impulsively) and then came to regret it later, I was pretty sure it would break me.

As I rode the elevator up to the administrative floor of Preventers HQ, I leaned against the wall and sighed.  Damn, it was frickin’ terrifying to contemplate how badly Trowa could hurt me.  I’d never wanted anyone to have that kind of control over me, but… this was Trowa.  I was perversely fascinated by the fact that he was the one who could either shelter or damn me.  Maybe it was because he had such a great track record dealing with other caged and cornered wild things.

Speaking of wild things, it kind of short-circuited my brain that a mere six hours of train-time ago, I’d been nestled in a little country town, enjoying my last breakfast as a guest of Guillaume and Pierra.  Just looking at this damn building from the outside and imagining a nearby desk with my name on it had made my skin itch and crawl.  I don’t think I was ever gonna be cut out for office life, even if it was an actual office-of-four-walls like Wufei’s.  I couldn’t do that again.  It would drive me completely apeshit with a double serving of bugfuck.

It was tempting to give in to the niggling distrust that Une still inspired and just say to hell with it.  I could find a job somewhere else – hell, hadn’t I just proved that in Smallville? – but then there was the ominous threat of an appearance before the War Tribunal looming on the horizon.  And it wasn’t just _my_ future hanging in the balance.  If I was serious about being with Trowa, then I had to keep my ass out of trouble.  Well, within reason.  So I was kinda obligated to avoid a hearing if I could. 

With that in mind, I’d set aside my ingrained suspicion of government organizations and used my time on the train back to Brussels by cracking open the introduction packet that Une had included in my file.  And, after going over everything, I’d concluded that joining the Preventers really was a decent option for me.  _If_ I could stay away from those damn desks.

It was obvious that the state of pure freedom I’d worked for wasn’t gonna happen.  Not now, at least.  Still, the contract clauses were very clear.  After our initial three years were up, we’d have more options in the private sector.  So I had more hope – _realistic_ hope and not grandiose, daydreaming hope – now that our freedom _would_ happen eventually than I’d ever entertained before.

I was tempted to just get it the hell over with: just tell Une to sign me up for training and, if I were single, I’d go ahead and do that.  But I wasn’t and I didn’t wanna be which meant I wasn’t just talking about _my_ life, here.  Which meant that Trowa was gonna be the first person I’d discuss my future career with.  Not Une.

I still had to look in on her office and say hello before I hunted down Hilde and asked about that promised transport to the house.  Despite Wufei’s line about Une appreciating what I’d done, I figured the _director_ would have a couple of official-type-things to say to me about the appropriation of her evidence, but we all knew that I had a strong case in my favor.  I’d gladly take a reprimand about my lack of confidence in her people over the risk of my suit’s detonation sequence being triggered.

Thinking it’d be best to just face the obligatory argument head on, I made the director’s office my next stop.  I was not exactly thrilled to learn that Une was in, but they say that progress is not a comfortable experience.  Whoo boy are they right.

So, we had it out (behind closed doors, thank God).  She accused me of irresponsibility – “You broke the chain of evidence!” – and I obligingly did the same – “You were risking people’s lives by keeping it here!”

I answered her rally of “Then you should have come to me about moving Deathscythe to a secure location!” with “And just how long would that have taken?”

A bit more was said and implied and possibly shouted before Une’s narrowed eyes finally flashed with victory.  “You really do care about the lives of the agents and civilians here.”

“Of course I do.”  Why had she thought I’d taken Deathscythe down to Earth in the first place all those years ago?  It was inconceivable to me that someone could fight a war for the sake of power alone, but then that was more or less precisely what Une’s attitude had been back then.  I decided it was in my best interest not to bring that up.

Perhaps she sensed my deliberate omission.  Relaxing back into her seat, she nodded.  “Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Cross.  If you need to arrange transport somewhere, I’m sure Agent Schbeiker can assist you.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I replied and got my ass the hell outta there.

“Look who’s here!” Hilde crowed happily in greeting when I poked my head into her cramped and overflowing work den.

Believing the situation unlikely to erupt into violence, I entered the room.  As soon as I was within range, Hilde punched me in the shoulder.

“Ow!” I complained.

“You butt!” she accused.  “What were you _thinking?”_

Had she added a little more disbelief right after the “what”, she could have sounded just like Wufei.  Creepy.

“Hey, I’ve already been over this with Une.  Did _you_ wanna work here with a freakin’ _bomb_ under your ass?”

She was not amused.  “I wasn’t talking about Deathscythe,” she retorted, giving me that grumpy cat look all women can pull off from the moment of their birth.  “Although that _was_ pretty dumb.  Still!  How could you just leave—!”

I held up a hand.  I was pretty sure I knew what she was gonna say next and, while there was nothing I could do about the past, I was here to see what I could salvage of the future.  She’d appreciate that.  The salvage aspect, I mean.

“We’re gonna meet and work it out, Hil.  Relax.”

“Relax.  Right,” she harrumphed.  _“You_ didn’t see the look on his face after you charged out of here.”

No, I hadn’t.  She was right about that.  I guess I _could_ see it, though…

Guilt waddled into the room, waiting for the opportune moment to pounce.

“Should I?” I asked after a beat of heavy silence.  All it’d take was a visit to the security mainframe (and given what I knew about the average government installation, I could make a damn good guess on where to find it) and a three second search through the meeting room video logs.  That easily, I could see just what my panic and selfishness had done to my husband.

Hilde considered it for a moment.  “No,” she finally said, and _that_ disturbed me even more than the presence of Guilt which was coiled and ready to strike.  She didn’t say it, but the way she wouldn’t meet my gaze told me that Trowa wouldn’t want me to see him that way.  However he’d looked after I’d just walked out on him.

Damn.  I was starting to think it’d be easier to just cut out my heart, add some garnish, and offer it up flambé style.

I cleared my throat.  “I’m meeting him at our house next week.  Can you get me on a flight by then?  And set up a rental car?”

“Sure,” she answered and, this time, when she reached toward my shoulder, she gave it a reassuring squeeze.  “How soon do you want to leave?”

That _was_ the question, wasn’t it?  Did I wanna hang around here and make Wufei babysit me?  (Tempting…)  Maybe let Heero rub in the fact that he’d likely already started up with his training so he was always gonna outrank me?  (Oh, I knew he wouldn’t say anything.  He wouldn’t have to.  He’d use the Heero Yuy “But You Can Call Me ‘Sir’” Look of Superiority.)  Or maybe I could hang out with Quatre and try to keep him from developing a caffeine addiction as he transitioned from anonymous-paper-pusher to man-with-meaningful-life-ahead-of-him?

Nah.  I’d pass, thanks.

“Is there an evening flight?”

She gave me a look that told me if there was, then my ass was gonna be on it.  As she moved back to her desk (although, how she could even locate the seat of her chair under all those memos and files, I had no freakin’ clue), she asked, “What are you going to do in the meantime?”

Good question.  “Uh…”

“There’s a barber shop just down the street,” she volunteered with a wink.  “Two hundred meters to the south.”

“Uh huh.”

“Just in case you’re interested.”

If she were a man, I’d have had a very colorful name to call her.  I had to content myself with rolling my eyes as I fought my way free into the corridor.  Still, she had a point; it was time to give the ball cap a rest.  I didn’t think I was gonna wanna make it a permanent look.

Before fashion, though, something a little more… responsible was in order.  I turned in the direction of the elevators and, gritting my teeth, marched inside.  I pushed the button for Medical and wondered if it was futile to hope that today was Sally’s day off.

The doors opened on the in-house clinic lobby and I peeked out.

“Mr. Cross!” Sally called happily, looking up from a computer at the reception desk.

Dammit.  Of course I couldn’t be that lucky.  As tempting as it was to excuse my visit as a wrong-button incident, I knew I wasn’t going to.  I had to do this.  I sighed and moved into the lobby before Shinigami could drop kick my ass outta the elevator.

“Hey,” I greeted.

“What brings you by?  Pre-training physical?”

“Um, not exactly.”  When I told her what I needed, she didn’t give me a speech or any funny looks.  Actually, all she said was, “All right.  Follow me.”

Twenty minutes later, I was reconnoitering the barber shop Hilde had mentioned.  I mean, hell, I had time to kill before my test results came back, so.

Obviously, I’ve never been a big fan of haircuts, but it was time to start fresh.  I took a deep breath and pushed open the door.  The bell chimed and the resident barber looked up from his golf magazine.  Our gazes met.  His wandered away first, zeroing in on the ragged ends of my shoulder-length hair.  He blinked.  I grinned ruefully.  Oh yeah.  I was pretty sure I was gonna end up being another one of the horror stories the guy shared with his regular customers in between chatting about the dog’s most recent trip to the vet and the wife’s latest shopping spree.

I took off my hat and let him get a good look at just what he was gonna be dealing with.  He looked the monster in the eye, so to speak, and didn’t run away screaming, so I had to give him points for that.

“Have a seat,” the guy said, looking a little shell shocked.

“An inch off the front,” I muttered, sliding into the chair.  “I’m gonna start wearing the back in a ponytail, so…”

“Hm.  I’ll see what I can do.”

Eventually, he warmed up to me and it turned out that he had two black cats (no dog) and his wife had a compulsive need to knit doilies.  He pointed to a pile next to the magazine rack by the door.  “Help yourself.”

Heh.  No thanks.  Hell, I had to squeeze my eyes shut and clamp my lips together to keep from guffawing at the thought of Trowa and I having _doilies_ in our house.  If, y’know, it was still _our_ house this time next week.

Right.  There was no point in thinking about that until I heard Trowa tell me to fuck off, eat shit, and die.  And I was not masochistic enough to dwell on it.  So I asked about doilies instead and learned more than I’d _ever_ need to know about their various patterns and materials.

I kinda pitied the guy, to tell ya the truth.

As I paid and tipped my barber, he asked if I was going to start my training soon.  I waved my “Trainee” baseball cap back and forth.  “Eh, it’s not set yet.  Maybe next month.”

“You take care, JC,” Jean-Robert the barber said.  “Peaceful times take a lot of work and sacrifice.”

“Don’t I know it.”

Before he could ask, the bell over the door chimed.  I glanced over and there was Hilde grinning from ear to ear.  “Something told me I might find you here.”

“Psychic intuition?” I guessed.

“I just followed the horrified expressions of the people on the street.  They led me straight over.”

“Well, that’s not gonna work a second time!”  I turned my head this way and that so she could admire the smooth (if stubby) ponytail I was now sporting.  “Classy, huh?”

She shook her head, smiling wryly.  “Come on, Prince Charming.  Let’s get some lunch.”

There was more than lunch involved, as it turned out.  She passed me my ticket for a late afternoon flight—

“Hey, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were tryin’ to get rid of me,” I joked.

“As if it would be this easy,” she retorted gamely.

—she also handed me a sealed envelope from Medical—

“Thanks for not asking,” I said with a smirk as I tucked it into my jacket pocket.

She held up her hands in the classic hands-off gesture.  “I don’t want to know how your colonoscopy went,” she quipped.  Just to see me wince at the thought of what that kind of procedure must entail, I’m sure.  Sadistic female.

—and presented me with a shiny, new credit card.

“We’ll get the bill here and you’re on the grid, so every time you buy a pack of gum…”

“Somebody gets buzzed with an update.  I got it.”  I grinned at her.  “Why didn’t you just tell me not to use it for porn?”

“JC, I do not want to think about you and _that_ at the same time.  _Ever.”_

I chuckled.

As we worked our way through our sandwiches and coffee, I tried to get her to spill the beans on this significant other of hers, but until I acquired sufficiently embarrassing blackmail material to use as leverage, my curiosity was gonna remain unsatisfied.  She wasn’t talking.

She was, however, glowing.  Freakin’ luminous.  And I instantly despised her for it.

My sense of humor linked arms with my patience and boosted a transport shuttle.  In less than a tenth of second, they roared off over the horizon.  Without their stabilizing force, I snapped.  “Don’t you have some incident reports to file or something?”

She blinked at me, probably experiencing conversation whiplash.  “No, but I do have a couple of _travel_ expense requests to send to admin.” 

OK.  Point.  I should probably not be chomping away at the hand that’s passing out airline tickets and rental car reservations.  It wasn’t a good enough reason to stop clinging to my resentment, though.  “So, are you gonna gimme a lift to the airport or shall I start walking now?”

Hilde gave me that pissy cat look again.  “If I thought it’d do any good, I’d tell you to get a move on.”

I rolled my eyes.  Yeah, I was being a bastard.  I couldn’t summon enough indignation to care.

“Here’s hoping your mood improves,” she said, standing.  “I’m parked in the garage across the street and your stuff from WEI is already in the trunk.  Let’s go.”

Even though she was pissed at me (and I completely deserved it for being such a shit), she still gave me a hug at the airport security check.

“The next time you see me, I’m gonna be myself again,” I impulsively promised, feeling the first flutterings of shame.  Yeah, my conscience would be smacking me over this until it smarted later.

“You’d better.”

The flight wasn’t long and the time difference was only a measly hour.  With daylight left to burn, I set a direct course for the transport desk to see a bored rent-a-car clerk about a vehicle.  I braved the streets of Dublin that first day.  After cursing the tenth Goddamn round-about (the frickin’ things existed to turn you into the equivalent of a dog chasing its own freakin’ tail), I gave up on getting a feel for the place while cruising the streets and found a centrally-located hotel from which I could prowl the town on foot.

Nightfall came as I strolled past restaurants, pubs, and assorted neon lights.  It sounded like the Saturday night it was – everyone was loud and doing their obnoxious best to air out their wild side after a week of repressing it.  Once upon a time, I would’ve jumped right in and joined the party.  Now, it all seemed kinda crass and empty.  Like spending the last hour of your life sorting through jelly beans by color.  In short, it was a lonely and absolute waste of my time.  I hunched my shoulders.  Suddenly, I really, _really_ missed-wanted-craved the weight and warmth of Trowa’s arm across my back.  I turned around and went the hell back to the hotel to order overpriced room service.

I battled my way out of Dublin the very next morning.

The round-abouts lessened in frequency the further I ventured into the countryside, but the wandering sheep took up the torch of tormenting motorists.  I laughed out loud at the posted speed limit of 100 kilometers per hour in areas where flocks of spray-paint-spotted sheep regularly trotted across the road, blithely daring drivers to hit them and invite a lawsuit from their owners.  Christ.

I decided to do the majority of my driving at night.  The sheep would probably be asleep then.  Or at least more reflective in the headlights of the car.

After that first full day, I took my time touring the island, circling ever closer to my final destination.   I saw sights, browsed through souvenir shops, sampled and decided that soda bread was an acquired taste that I had zero interest in acquiring.  The land, though, was awe-inspiring.  My first impression of the country was that it was very green, but also rocky, and gorgeous.  My second impression was that I’d probably be able to appreciate it better if I weren’t seeing it all on my lonesome.

I didn’t so much drive as I meditated on what I was gonna say to Trowa.  I was pretty sure that profuse apologies and a good deal of begging would be involved.  By the end of the week, I was so sick of going over and over and _over_ it that I was actually looking forward to just having it out.  Like ripping off a Band-aid, it’d be best to just get it the hell over with instead of poking and picking at it.

Little by little, I neared a small touristy town called Clifden in Connemara.  The landscape rolled gently but dramatically with the Twelve Bens and dived to a climatic and craggy finish into the ocean.  The land ended up revealing itself as the closest thing to paradise I’d ever seen – and given the villa where Quatre and I had hidden out during the war, that was really saying something – but I was too damn worn out to be anything other than relieved when the sun rose on the final day and I could abandon my aimless wandering.  I didn’t even stop to toss out all the neatly bundled convenience store bags of food wrappers and drink boxes in the backseat of the car.  All I cared about was the fact that I had three-quarters of a tank of gas and something like twenty kilometers of asphalt to tackle.  The sheep exhibited an uncharacteristic sense of self-preservation and stayed the hell outta my way.

It was still very early morning when I pulled into the drive of the little house I’d seen for the first time three months ago in a photograph.  Mine was the only vehicle in sight, but that didn’t mean anything.  Maybe Trowa was here already and he’d put his in the garage.  The rolling door was closed, so I couldn’t tell.

I nervously turned my attention back to the house.  As I put the car in park and turned off the engine, my nerves were momentarily soothed by awe and I marveled: Joseph Cross and Tristan Armstrong owned this place together. 

JC and Tris.

I wondered (a bit randomly) if he was gonna give me the chance to get used to calling him “Tris” in public.

Damn.  Stupid, little irrelevant thoughts like that weren’t supposed to gut you, but that’s exactly what the frickin’ thing did.

My hands tightened on the wheel.  I didn’t want to go in that house.  I didn’t want to face The End, if that was what was waiting for me.  But I’d set up this meeting and when – _if_ – Trowa showed up, did I want him to see me sitting out here in the damn driveway whimpering?  With a reminder to myself that I was too young to be worrying that the strange twinges in my chest were a symptom of an oncoming heart attack, I reached for the door handle.

I pried myself out of the car and, somehow, I got my too-stiff, too-gangly limb-tangled self up the stone steps of the front porch.  Christ.  I’d never felt this awkward as a teenager.  The hell.  I could only hope that I didn’t look half as clumsy as I thought I did.

Mouth dry and heart pounding, I lifted a hand and rapped on the wooden door.  No one answered.  I peeked in through the nearest window but detected no motion inside.  Huh.  I guess I really had gotten here first, then.

Digging the key (which had until this morning been taped to the inside of my file folder) out of my jeans pocket, I shouldered open the door and ventured inside.  The place was furnished, but I couldn’t really tell with what.  All the chairs and stuff were covered and the air was close and dusty.  If Une’s Preventers had ever used this as a safe house or anything, then it’d been a _looong_ time ago.

I left the front door ajar and meandered through the small living room, taking note of the fireplace.  I didn’t see any buttons or switches near it, so I assumed it was wood-burning.  Damn.  I didn’t know the first thing about how to operate the thing.  If I was lucky, we’d get Internet access so I could look it up.

A hall branched off of the living room, running along the center of the house lengthwise.  I saved investigating those rooms for later, stayed my course, and ended up in the kitchen.  The back door was solid wood – a definite plus for a paranoid guy like me – and someone had gone to the trouble of putting in storm windows.  I crossed the room to poke around in the drawers.

Something – a change in air pressure or a small sound, maybe – alerted me to the fact that either I wasn’t alone or the wind had picked up outside.  Since all of the trees that I could see through the kitchen windows were perfectly still, I was betting on the former.  Heart pounding and throat dry, I back-tracked a step and looked over the rustic, kitchen table, through the archway and into the living room.

I was right.  I wasn’t alone.  Trowa was standing in the doorway.

My chest just imploded at the sight of him: so grim, so still.  He looked paler, thinner, like he hadn’t been sleeping well or eating much.  And his face…  I think all it would take would be a twitch of his lips for his entire being to crack right down the middle in one jagged line.

I’d done this to him.  Well, maybe not me directly or intentionally.  I hadn’t been hiding his food or making noise all damn night, but my willful ignorance and uncertainty had done this.  Damn, but I’d kill to see him smile that genuine, carefree smile he’d given me on our wedding day when… when he’d been happy.  Honestly _happy._

It all kind of hit me then that he hadn’t been acting, not for one damn moment of it.  Our whirlwind courtship and brief stint as a married couple – none of it had been make-believe for him.  And, what’s more, the others had known it.

Wufei had hinted at it: _“Life is very fragile.  Take care of each other.”_

Quatre had implied it: _“I’ve never seen Trowa so happy!”_

Heero had damn well tried to smack me in the face with it: _“I have a problem with people getting married under false pretenses.”_

That was more than enough to make my hands tremble with reaction and aimless anger, but there was more: that morning when I’d stopped by Quatre’s office to ask for backup before tackling the change of residence forms… it hadn’t been _me_ he and Heero had been talking about.  They hadn’t been referring to the _mission._   They’d been talking about _Trowa!_

_“I told him to follow his emotions, not let them lead him around by the nose.”_

_“Even if that’s so, it’s his choice.”_

Oh, my God.  They had known.  They had _all_ known.  I just hadn’t wanted to see it.  Trowa wasn’t the type to voluntarily (and flagrantly) express his emotions – especially on missions – but I could see now that he’d been bombarding me with them from Day One.  I’d just been so busy selling myself on the line that it was all an act that I’d never considered any other option at all.

Goddamn, I was an ass.

I took a deep breath, stuck my hands in my pants pockets, and scuffed my way around to the side of the table.  Trowa shut the door behind him and strode toward me, pausing on the kitchen threshold.

“It’s a nice house,” I began awkwardly just as he told me, “I heard what you said to Wufei.”

OK, his topic totally trumped mine.  “Er… what?”

“He called me before you arrived at his office.  I was on the line, listening.”

“Um.  Oh.  OK.”  Damn but the last time I’d felt this off-balance I was trying to dodge a swarm of mobile dolls in a damaged Leo suit as I endeavored to break into OZ’s Lunar Base.  “Uh… so, can I come home?”

“Have you sorted it out?” he whispered, his voice tight.

Dammit, if I’d handled this conversation like I’d planned and rehearsed and obsessed over, he wouldn’t still be so painfully uncertain of me.  I felt Shame crush my pride in its fist; I shouldn’t have made Trowa ask that question in the first place.

I looked into his eyes and said, “Yes.”

He gave me a long, measuring look.  Finally, he replied, “All right.”

“All right?” I repeated, flabbergasted.  “That’s all?  You’re not angry with me for taking off?”

“You had a valid reason.”

“Yeah, but…”

“You didn’t tell me about the mission details.  I didn’t tell you I couldn’t be objective.”

“Yeah, OK.  As far as stupid goes, we’re one all, but what I mean is…”  Shit.  I was botching this.  “I didn’t watch the recording you sent me before I…  Hell, I just _walked away_ and—”

“And now you’re here.”

Yeah. I was _here,_ but he was a meter and a half away over _there_ and it was somehow so damn hard to talk to him with this distance between us.  I floundered.  Pulling my right hand out of my pocket and pushing my bangs out of my eyes with a gusty sigh, I rasped, “God, I’m dying here, babe.  Are you gonna kiss me or kick my—?”

And just like that, there was _no_ distance between us.  He was around the table and I was wrapping him up in my arms before I’d even finished complaining.  Our mouths crashed together and melded and, oh man, it was good to be home.  Our hands were all over each other like we’d just escaped from some mad scientist’s sensory deprivation chamber.

“God, I missed you,” I panted into his ear when we broke for breath.

“Your own fault,” he rumbled, placing a sucking kiss on my neck.  His hands delved past the waistband of my jeans and dug my shirt out from where I’d haphazardly tucked it in.  I rocked on the balls of my feet as he pulled the garment free and his hands moved hotly toward the fly of my pants.

_Yes yes yes yes—!_

Trowa popped the button free as his mouth returned to mine and – oh God – you have no idea how _badly_ I just wanted to go with it, but there was more that had to be said and – _oh please!_ – he deserved more than the half-assed apology I’d given him.  Besides, I still didn’t know—

“Whoa, whoa, hold up, baby.  What do you want?” I panted, trying to keep my voice light although I feared that we were, in fact, setting the tone for our entire marriage.

He backed off immediately, his desire giving ground to caution.  “You don’t want—?”

What I didn’t want was to hear him finish that sentence with something unforgivably stupid.

“I don’t know what I want,” I clarified.  “I—dammit—you’re my first and I—”

And just like that he was looming over me, volatile as hell and twice as sexy for it.  “You spent three months seeing other people and you’re telling me you didn’t—!”

“The hell!  I didn’t spend three months seeing other people!” I hissed, offended and furious that he’d even think I’d do something like that to him.  “I spent ninety-four days trying to figure out if I had anything to offer—”  I cut myself off right there.  If I finished that sentence, _I’d_ feel vindicated but Guilt would be slobbering all over Trowa.  That was _not_ how I wanted this meeting to go.

I took a deep breath, fisting my left hand in the back of his shirt, and admitted, “OK.  The truth.  I spent the majority of the time working myself to the point of exhaustion so I didn’t have to face the fact that there was only one person I _did_ want.   _Do_ want.  You.”  I took a deep breath and admitted the rest of it.  “And I spent the last week kicking myself for being such a dumbass and hoping like hell you’d take me back.”

Trowa blinked at me.  “You…?”  For a minute he just looked kinda puzzled.

I clarified, “There was no kissing, dating, touching… no action of any kind.”  Except for that wet dream, but since it’d been about him anyway, I didn’t think it counted.

“You didn’t do any… experimenting in all that time?”  He didn’t sound disbelieving.  He sounded hopeful.

“I’m a married man,” I answered softly.  As far as I was concerned, that was all that mattered.  “And… I wanna stay that way.”

Trowa wetted his lips, shifting toward me as if in response to some kind of gravitational force.  I was so there, ready to meet him.  His hands tightened on my hips like he was gonna pull me close again… and then they fisted.  He seemed to make himself take a step back.  He dropped his hands and glanced at the nearest window, frowning.

I stuck my hands back in my pockets.  Yeah, we had to be smart about this.  Getting hot ‘n’ heavy without being clear as to _why_ we were getting hot ‘n’ heavy in the first place was kinda what had gotten us in this mess to begin with.

I watched as Trowa’s eyes narrowed in thought and speculation.  I braced myself for the ultimatum I just _knew_ was coming.

“Are you sure?” he probed, turning back to me, scanning for weaknesses.  “You _want_ to be married.  To _me?”_

“Yes,” I rasped, my voice cracking like I was frickin’ thirteen years old again and awkward as hell.

Trowa accepted my assertion with a decisive nod.

_Oh, shit.  Here it comes…_

“Then you have to stop running from me, hiding from what you feel, ignoring the truth.”  He took a small step in my direction and, when I refused to back up, we were all but embracing.  “When I touch you, when you _like_ how I touch you…  Don’t hold out on me again.”

I knew exactly what he was talking about: the evening before Howard had shown up, the time I’d convinced myself was just and only for Trowa, not for _me._   I was ashamed of myself when I remembered it.  Trowa had come that evening, but I’d chosen not to.  At the time, I’d thought he hadn’t noticed.  Yeah.  Right.

 _That was for Trowa,_ I could remember thinking as I’d tried to will myself to sleep.  Even though I’d wanted that time to be all for him, all about him, it’d still been about me hiding from the fact that I’d liked it when another man had touched me, had brought me off.  I hadn’t wanted to face the truth.

Trowa persisted, “No more hiding from me, from us, from this.”

If there had been any strength left in me to resist, I might have trembled, but there was none.  I laid it on the line: “I’m done with hiding.  I’m home.  I choose you.”

He inhaled sharply, but I wasn’t done yet.  “I choose you for missions, for companionship, for friendship, for life.  I’d marry you all over again.”  To illustrate this, I reached deeper in my jeans pocket with my right hand and pulled out a small, velvet jewelry bag.  I presented it to him in expectant silence.

It wasn’t much, just something I’d picked up at one of those local crafts shops along the road on the way here, and it was either going to be the nail in my coffin or the enduring symbol of hope for the future.  So, no pressure, right?

Trowa glanced from me to the pouch before upending it into his palm.  We both looked down at the silver band that tumbled out.

“It’s not gold.”  I had enough cash left over from my job at the garage and with the work crew for a pair of gold rings, but I liked the pure shine of silver.  Even white gold didn’t come close.  Polished silver looked like starlight, like the light of truth.  And it was a strong metal, something you could _trust._  “They had gold ones, but I figured… silver’s stronger and…”  I gave up trying to explain my fanciful logic and finally pulled my left hand out of my pocket, letting him see the identical ring that was already on my finger.  “I’m yours if you want me,” I told him.  “And the sex stuff…  we’ll figure it out, yeah?  I mean, we’ve got time and each other.  Is that… is that OK?”

He made a fist with his hand, clutching the ring I’d bought for him securely in his grasp as he leaned down and kissed me gently.  He stepped toward me again and, when I leaned back against the sturdy, oak table, his hips fit into the cradle of mine with a surging motion and we both gasped.

“Yes, Duo…  _Yes,”_ he whispered against my lips.  It was like hearing our wedding vows all over again.

_I do… I do… I do… I do…_

His mouth trailed over my cheek in a hot rush of breath. “Don’t ever ask me to watch you walk away again,” he gasped against my ear. “I can’t. _I can’t.”_

“Hey,” I soothed. “You’re stuck with me now.”

He leaned back and pinned me with his gaze. “Promise?” he mouthed and this time I had no reservations about answering.

“I promise, baby.  I promise.”  And with that, I reached for his fisted hand, coaxed his fingers to uncurl, and – with a reverence that had my throat pretzeling around my Adam’s apple – slid the silver ring onto his finger.

For a moment, neither of us moved.  I held his hand in both of mine, our rings glinting in the morning light.  When I looked up again and met his gaze, a depthless warmth filled me to bursting and then solidified into something malleable yet immutable, supple yet strong.

I loved him.

And I intended to show him how much.  Starting now.  I reached for him and the spell broke.

Our coming together was messy and rough.  Fabric was stretched out of shape and torn.  Buttons popped off and scattered.  With a slight lift from Trowa, I was sitting on the kitchen table, my jeans tangled around my still laced boots.  He stepped over my ankles, bringing our half-naked bodies into explosive contact.

There were tears and sobs and sometimes one or both of us thrust too hard.  It was uncomfortable but our clutching hands didn’t loosen.  I hooked my knees over his hips and he buried his face in my neck and we just rocked together right there on the damn kitchen table.  It was hot and sweaty and urgent.  We’d have bruises all over the place I was sure, but I didn’t care.  I was mesmerized by the sensual and sexy-as-hell thrusting of his hips.  His long fingers alternately grasped my bare thighs, clenched on my hips, cradled my head.  We were unstoppable.  He was the fire and I was the phoenix.

This was it.  He was consuming me, burning me up, tearing me down and there would be no going back after this.

And then, with a series of slightly erratic and shallow thrusts, he came, spilling over my length and belly, gasping my name so softly in my ear, “Duo—Duo—Duo—!”

I groaned.  “Oh, God.  _Trowa…”_   And then I was clutching him tightly, rolling my hips against him and the slickness of his release and I—!

I held on to him tightly as I came, back bowed and eyes closed, teeth clenched and heart bursting.  Oh, Christ.  When the tidal force released me, I lowered my head to his shoulder and just freakin’ existed.  When I could think again, the first thought that came to me was how I was _never_ gonna be able to let him go.

“I dunno about you,” I murmured when I could breathe again, “but I could do that every day for the rest of our lives.”

“Do you think this table can take that kind of abuse?”  He rapped his knuckles on the surface.  Knock on wood.

“Hah!  Wanna find out?”

He chuckled.  “I’d like to find our bed.”

That sounded nice, so I hummed agreeably.  “I figure it’s gonna take a lot more effort to break a bed than it will a table.”  Seeing as how beds were kinda designed with that sort of thing in mind.

Trowa snorted softly and leaned in for a kiss, which I gladly gave him.

“Promises, promises,” he teased when he leaned back and started smoothing wayward strands of hair away from my face.  His soft smile was back and I thrilled at the sight of it.  Now all I had to do was make sure it stayed there.

Ninmu ryokai.

I hopped off the table and accepted the grey T-shirt Trowa handed me (which I’d ripped off of him about ten minutes prior) and cleaned up.  Trowa pulled his jeans up over his hips but didn’t bother to button or zip.  A promising sign if there ever was one.

“I hope you brought something else to wear,” I said as I free-throw-shot’ed the now-goopy-rag into the kitchen sink.

Trowa was still grinning as I bent down to pull up my shorts and pants.  “Do I need something else to wear?” he asked.

That made me pause.  I grinned.  Widely.  “Not as far as I’m concerned.”  I reached out and smoothed a palm over his chest.  The muscle and skin beneath my fingers responded to my touch, warming, firming, tightening.  Ah, God.  Just touching him was my new damn hobby.

“Hm,” I appreciated, stumbling an inch closer when Trowa’s hands dived into the back pockets of my sagging jeans, bringing us together.  I took a breath to ask about the bedroom that was supposed to be around here somewhere—

“What’s this?”

I blinked, noticing the quizzical look on Trowa’s face as he withdrew a hand, a familiar-looking paper held in his grasp.

“What’s it look like?” I answered, wondering if I should be concerned.  If so, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to manage it.  I was post-orgasmic and riding the smooth waves of lassitude.

Trowa shook open the page in his hand.  “It looks like blood test results,” he informed me, studying the crumpled paper more thoroughly.  “Why…?  If you haven’t been with anyone else…?”

“Trowa,” I said softly, reaching for his wrist.  I was a little startled by his reaction.  He actually looked a little lost, this weird mix of hope and fear, like some little kid who was working up the courage to reach under his bed in the dark to grope for his dropped teddy bear.  My heart throbbed.  “Baby, we’re married.  That means we take care of each other, doesn’t it?”

His fingers tightened around the printout.

“I did this for us.  So you’d know I was serious.”

He swallowed thickly.  “I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“What!?  I’m serious about a shitload of things!” I exclaimed, trying to lighten the mood with a joke or two before we both drowned.

“No,” he answered, reaching for his own pocket.  He pulled a neatly folded sheet of paper out of his billfold and offered it to me.  “I never thought you’d say you were serious about… _us._ Me.”

I took it and opened it up; that was bound to be easier that looking into his eyes right then.  Trowa’s own blood work results stared back at me.  I glanced at the date and nearly bit my tongue in half to keep the expletive from booming out.  Trowa had gotten tested the day before our wedding.  The day _before._   Not after.  Not _twelve fuckin’ weeks_ after!

I was such an ass.  _Such.  An.  Ass._

“Hey,” Trowa said, reaching for _my_ wrist this time.  “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.  Why the hell do you put up with my shit?”  The words, born of my bafflement and self-directed frustration, popped out before I could grit my teeth.

“Can’t you guess?” he asked, leaning toward me and pressing a kiss to my jaw, which was now clenched, and then nipping at my earlobe.

“How many do I get?” I asked, blowing out a breath and letting the knot of tension in my chest unwind a bit.

“How many what?” he asked, sounding like he was genuinely curious.

It kinda hit me then that I could ask for anything – houses, fake names, felonies – and he’d give them to me.  No questions asked.  Damn.  He really did love me.  He really, _really_ did.

“Guesses,” I rasped.

“How many do you want?”

How many.  That was all he wanted to know because he’d give them all – he’d give me everything I ever asked for – if he could.  I could hear that.  Trust that.  Know it to be true.

I reached out and pulled myself closer to him.  I tilted my chin up and touched my lips to his.  “Just one.”  And I wasn’t talking about guesses anymore, either.  “Bedroom,” I demanded softly, pushing us both away from the table.

“Hmm,” Trowa agreed, gesturing for me to lead the way.

There were four doors off the hall and I was tempted to stop after the first one (which revealed a small bedroom beyond), but made myself look in on the bathroom (where Trowa grabbed a couple hand towels from the linen cupboard), the utility closet (the washing machine would come in handy eventually), and finally the master bedroom.

Bingo.

I plopped down on the bed, my fingers clawing at my shoelaces until my boots could be kicked off and my pants wiggled out of.  Trowa joined me, climbing onto the bed and over me, as bare as I was.  I wrapped my arms around his waist as he settled his weight against me, his lips already nudging mine.

There was no reason – no reason _at all_ – for me to think we were headed for Round Two so soon.  Hell, I figured we’d doze off in the middle of fooling around.  Trowa surprised me, though, straddling my hips and moving against me with inspiring purpose until I shivered with arousal.  Oh, Christ.  I wanted him again.  More slowly this time.  I wanted to savor him.  He certainly seemed to be savoring me.  He braced himself on one hand but the other was taking its sweet time mapping my chest.  The teasing kisses deepened until I was clutching at him, wordlessly demanding more.

When I thrust back against him and our lengths bumped and rubbed together, he paused.

“Tell me what I need to know,” he murmured urgently, looking at me.  Despite the blood that had to be roaring through his veins, he was giving me his undivided attention.

“Uh…”  I tried to rally my thoughts.  I knew I had an opinion about this; I just couldn’t remember what it was.

“Nothing invasive?” Trowa checked and I blinked.

“Do you want that?”  I wasn’t in any hurry to explore it, but I was willing to try it eventually.  What was more important was making sure I wasn’t putting off something Trowa wanted, needed, was perhaps even asking me for.

His expression softened as I petted the molded-to-muscle skin over his ribs.  “Not today,” he answered.  “But someday.”  He inhaled and his eyes darkened as his thoughts turned in that direction.  “You, in me,” he clarified and then wet his lips.

With a look of such sensual hunger on his face, I wasn’t capable of turning him down.  “Anything you want, baby.”

Trowa shuddered.  “A taste,” he requested on a rasp, rubbing his hips against mine.

I remembered he’d headed in that direction once when we’d been in bed together.  I’d stopped him then and for what I’d believed to be a damn good reason.  That kind of power and subjugation didn’t belong in our bed with us.  But my only frame of reference was what I’d seen and overheard on the streets as a kid and I’d checked the past at the door when I’d walked into this house today.  If this was what Trowa wanted, I’d give it to him.

“I should take a shower,” I warned him, making a move to roll away.

Trowa leaned down and rubbed his chest against mine, nuzzling my neck and inhaling deeply.  “No,” he replied as he dined on my scent.  I ran my hands over his back and let him.  He knew what he wanted and if he wanted me like this, I wasn’t gonna argue.

It was nerve-wracking knowing his final destination ahead of time and having to endure his progress as he quested down my body.  He lingered on my throat, savored my chest, tasted my belly with breathy licks, and then his hands were on my hips and I watched – panting helplessly – as he pressed a kiss to my length.

“Ah!” I breathed, trying not to twitch my hips in response.  My fingers curled into the blanket beneath me as I tracked his every motion.  His green eyes were nearly closed, glittering hotly as he pressed his cheek against me and rubbed.  My eyes slid shut.  I moaned, my thighs shifted open, and I felt Trowa settle there.  And then I felt his breath, his lips, his tongue.

_Oh God!_

I cried out, shouted.  I think I said his name as I was overwhelmed and my brain was blasted into another dimension.  My feet gravitated toward him and I felt his hips shifting, thrusting against the surface of the bed.  I forced my eyes open even as he opened his mouth over me and I watched him.  I watched a part of me disappear between his lips as he rolled his hips, seeking friction against the bedcovers.  He was incredible.

“Trowa, baby,” I moaned.

He hummed, moving down a little, and then applied his unparalleled talent for sucking my lower lip to _that_ portion of my anatomy just to make me scream.  I could only imagine the kind of swear words that were coming out of my mouth.  I was probably begging, too.  I didn’t care.  I couldn’t hear myself over the roaring of my pulse.  Hell, I couldn’t even keep track of time.  Trowa moved his mouth over me once, twice, three times (I lost count after that) and then – with a final caress of his tongue – he looked up.

His hair was mussed, his lips reddened, his eyelids drooping.  I reached for him, pulling him up and rolling him beneath me.  My urgency probably made me rough but damn I was so hard.  Achingly hard.  Darker than day-old bruises hard.  I was not capable of restraint.  I worshiped his mouth – oh, that mouth! – and impatiently mapped his skin with my hands, seeking his sweaty length.  He gasped as I spread the moisture leaking from the tip over him, rubbing and grasping, twisting and brushing.  He set the rhythm and I joined in, aligning our hips, guiding both of us into full contact as best I could with one hand as we rocked together.

I felt his hands in my hair.  An instant later, the band tumbled off and the strands spilled over the sides of my neck.  Trowa’s fingers clenched in the locks, and then grasped at my shoulders.  “Duo,” he rasped, asking for more, _faster,_ _NOW!_

“Yes, baby,” I agreed, _needed, urged!_   His long legs unwound from around my hips and, with his feet braced on the bed, we got serious.  Brain function – what little still remained – evaporated.  I had no idea why I’d thought I could go slow – I vaguely remembered entertaining the notion earlier – but it was laughable now.  I nipped his chin instead, lust rolling over humor like an armored tank squashes a compact car.

“Want it _so bad, baby,”_ I told him as the telltale tingling pressure started out in my belly, zoomed to the base of my spine, and ricocheted along my length.  “OK?” I had the presence of mind to ask.  If it wasn’t, we were in trouble because this train didn’t have an emergency brake.

“I want to watch,” he rumbled and just the sound of his voice was enough.

I guess you could say I jumped the tracks.  Derailed.  I crashed into him like a locomotive smashing through a platform.  At which point, I was totally out of service.

I came back to myself with a gasp, noticing my trembling arms first – I was still bracing myself above him – and taking note of the very slippery slide of his length against my belly second.  I opened my eyes and looked into his.  He was still watching me.  I groaned.  I could not take this kind of torture and torment.  I was married to the sexiest man in the whole damn universe and I was gonna be spending the rest of my life trying to get him to wear bulky turtleneck sweaters with eye-wateringly bright, dorky patterns so that no one _ever_ suspected what sheer virility lay beneath.

“Hmm,” he purred in approval and his hips began to move against me with more purpose.  I glanced down and – holy hell! – he’d waited for me, just to watch me come all over the both of us, and now he was rocking up into me, his length so damn hard and dark with the blush of arousal that it looked like it ought to be frickin’ _steaming_ with heat.

“Can I?” I wheezed, lifting a hand from the bed to his thigh.

He arched his neck by way of answer and the invitation actually gave me a little jolt.  I smoothed my palm over his skin, wrapped my fingers around his slick length and pulled.

 _“Fuck!”_ he hissed, his hands flying to my hips and his fingers curling, digging into the flesh of my ass.  I pumped him for just a minute – one too-short minute – and then he was swelling in my grasp.  Close.  So close.

I wondered, given what he’d said earlier, if he’d want… more.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I sat back, ran the fingers of my other hand through the mess coating his belly, and reached down, brushing my knuckles over the soft skin drawn taut over his balls, and rubbed my lubricated fingertips over his entrance.

He choked on a shout of pleasure, his fingers clenching hard enough to leave bruises.

This time, I watched _him._   And, oh Christ, he was beautiful.  Wearing only my ring and the necklace I’d given him, he gave himself over to the inevitable and it hit with such power that traces splattered my chest all the way up to my collarbone.

Damn.

We were gonna be going through a _lot_ of towels.

Smiling, I leaned down and pressed kisses to his heaving chest.  I didn’t ask if he was OK, if _we_ were OK.  I just snagged one of the hand towels and started mopping up.

“Duo?” he whispered.

“Yeah, baby?” I asked, finishing up and chucking the terry cloth over the edge of the bed.

When I turned toward him, he had this look on his face like he wasn’t sure if any of this was real.  I reached for his left hand and lifted it so he could see the ring on his finger before I kissed the inside of his wrist, nuzzled his palm, and nipped the pad of his ring finger.  He shivered in response.

“You’re going to be here when I wake up?” he checked.

“Yeah,” I promised with a smile.  “You can even use me as a body pillow if you want.”  I flopped down on my back accommodatingly.

He chuckled.  “You’re gonna live to regret that offer,” he told me, curling around me and settling his pointy chin against my shoulder.

“Hah,” I scoffed, grinning.  “We’ll just see about that.”  And, the most amazing thing about it was that we _would._   We had a future to fill with days and nights and botched breakfasts and rushed showers and, yes, even Duo the Body Pillow.  There was lots to see and do and try. 

I lay there not-sleeping for a long time, my eyes tearing up in the late morning light as Trowa tickled my neck with his measured breaths.  His long limbs were wound around me and his body heat was making me sweat.  I lay there and just marveled at how damn lucky I was.

Just… yeah.  I had it all.  _We_ had it all.

End of story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve driven around the Irish countryside before (yup, in Connemara… and the Burren, both of which are on the west coast of the island) so I know all about those spray-painted sheep and 100 km/hr speed limit road signs on hairpin curves. Totally. And I know all about the round-abouts. Evil things. Evil, evil, evil.
> 
> And I believe Sunhawk mentions doilies in one of her marvelous 1x2 arcs. What is it about Gundam boys and doilies? I dunno, but it tickles my funny bone.
> 
> Is this the end of TooT? Nope. One more chapter is yet to come… and it is epic in length and smex-ay.


	18. Better off as Lovers

# Chapter 18: Better off as Lovers

_It’s me and my plus one at the afterlife…_

 

Well, OK.  Not _quite_ “end of story.”  There was other stuff to figure out.  Like who was gonna get the top drawer in the bureau and who got dibs on the single-car garage.  That sort of stuff.

It turned out that we’d both come here with our belongings in tow, both hoping to stay but kinda doubting we would.  I shared a wry smile with Trowa when we went out to our respective rental vehicles to fetch our things.  I couldn’t say we were eternal optimists.  Maybe more like fellow lovesick chumps.  Or inveterate gamblers.  I was sure neither of us had arrived here certain that there’d be a reconciliation, but neither of us had been able to let that fear win out.  We’d come denying our hopes, but we’d hoped nonetheless.  Our pair of duffel bags apiece proved it.

Although we’d allowed enough hope to justify dragging our meager piles of shit here with us, neither of us had been presumptuous enough to procure provisions.  So off we went on our first shopping trip as married persons.  Trowa wrinkled his nose when I tossed a bag of ginger snaps into the cart and I rolled my eyes at the cans of ready-to-heat-and-eat stew he wordlessly added.

“Do we even have a can opener?” I challenged and that prompted him to chuck one of those onto our growing mound of food.

“We do now.”

After I’d hunted up all the stuff I wanted, I asked, “Hey, can I trust you not to throw in dehydrated soup or canned sardines while my back is turned?”

“Why is your back going to be turned?”

“I’m heading next door to the drug store.  We need toilet paper… and stuff.”

“Ah,” he agreed.

I boogied my ass to the next place over and willed myself not to blush.  I was totally old enough to be buying shit like lube and condoms.  Totally, definitely old enough.  And married enough.  I repeated this mantra as I purposefully avoided eye contact with the cashier.

Since I finished my errand first, I stowed the toilet paper, wet wipes, facial tissues, laundry soap, and other assorted gems of the modern health-and-beauty age in the car then went looking for Trowa.  I caught him at the check-out, arriving just in time to pay for my half of the groceries.  Clifden was a tourist town, but the sheer number of shopping bags we loaded into the car seemed to pique the interest of the locals.  We didn’t have our first run-in with them, however, until we’d gotten back home and I was trying to convince Trowa that the milk really ought to go in the fridge door and not on shelf above the veggie bin (whatever the hell that was supposed to do).

A knock on the front door made us pause in the middle of our staring contest and I sighed.  Taking a step back, I warned him, “You put it there and I’m just gonna keep moving it.”

“Fine,” he agreed.  As I left the kitchen I kept an eye on him and… yup.  He put it above the veggie bin.  I made it a point to finish rolling my eyes before I answered the door.

On the stoop stood a middle-aged blonde woman holding something vaguely brick-shaped wrapped in tin foil.  My first instinct was to hit the floor and yell, “Fire in the hole!”

Shit, that’s messed up.

“Grand day,” she said, distracting me from the little moment I was having.  Her voice was lilting and light and had a soothing, musical quality that I wanted to impersonate immediately but knew I’d fail horribly at.  “Hello.  My name’s Lorna O’Michael.  My husband and I live just up the road.  Are you here on your holidays?”

“Uh… in a manner of speaking.  This is our place,” I confirmed.  “Joe Cross.  JC.”  I stuck out my hand.  “Nice to meet you.  Yeah, we’re the new owners.”  I hoped she wasn’t about to tell us that the septic system was primed to explode under our asses.  The ink had been dry on the deed for weeks, so it was way too late to pass the buck now.  Although, hell, what a way to write off a money pit, huh?  If that was Une’s plan all along, she was gonna bear some watching in the future.  That kind of crazy-like-a-fox cunning was admirable, but damn annoying if you found yourself on the wrong end of it.

“A pleasure,” Lorna O’Michael said, and then prompted with nosy-neighbor, gossiping-busybody expertise, “We?”

I tried not to smirk at her tone.  I’m sure she was trying to sound politely interested.  Heh.  Yeah.  That was a fail.  Holding up a finger in a mute request for her to hold on a moment, I leaned back into the house and called, “Tris?”  _We’ve got neighbors!_ I didn’t say.  He’d probably reply with something about adding bait and traps to the shopping list.  I didn’t think Lorna O’Michael would appreciate the joke.

“Hey, babe,” I continued, turning at the sound of his footsteps.  “One of our neighbors is here.”

Trowa joined me on the threshold and I looked back at Lorna in time to catch her blink of surprise.  I guess same-sex couples weren’t a regular thing around here.  Or maybe my sweet set of rental wheels screamed Straight Guy.

“Tristan Armstrong,” he said.  Standing a little behind me, he offered his hand which Lorna shook before going back to clutching the tin foil brick-that-was-probably-not-a-kilo-of-C4.  Trowa appeared to come to the same conclusion as me about it; when his gaze darted down, he automatically stiffened, and then forced himself to relax.  Yeah, we probably didn’t have a suicide bomber on our doorstep.

“Where are you from?” she asked, making conversation.

As I proceeded to basically let Lorna interrogate our prefabricated life stories outta me, I idly wondered why – if Trowa’s left arm was behind my back – he wasn’t putting his hand on my waist or something equally spouse-y.

“We’d invite you in,” I said apologetically as I started my final approach to conversation’s end, “but it’s a real mess in here still.”

“Oh, well.  Maybe some other time,” she replied agreeably.  “If you’ve no plans for this evening, we’ll all be down at the pub to watch the match.  If you fancy coming along…”

“Match?” I asked.

“Gaelic!” she supplied in an unexpected rush, clearly a long-time fan of whatever it was.  In response to my blank look, she added, “Football.  Kick off’s at seven o’clock, down at Mally’s.”

I pumped her for directions and she handed over the tin foil bundle, which she said was something called a Barm Brack.  Hm.  Sounded fun.  Maybe not as much fun as C4, but there ain’t much that is.

I promised we’d venture down to Mally’s that evening and then she concluded her welcome committee routine.  Hell, she was probably making a mental list of all the people she was gonna call as soon as she got home.  Twenty bucks said Mally’s was gonna be _packed_ tonight.

As soon as she was out of sight around the bend in the drive, I shut the door and Trowa burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, grinning.  The whole thing had been giggle-worthy, true, but Trowa’s eyes were freakin’ _tearing up._

He cleared his throat and straightened.  Only then did he show me the carving knife he was holding in his left hand, the hand he’d been hiding behind me the whole time.  Oh, Christ.

“Seriously?”

“Habit.”

“Fucking hell,” I remarked between snickers.  “You’re a headcase.”  Hell, we _both_ were.

He smiled.  “But you like me that way.”

When he leaned in for a kiss, I gave it to him and, on a sigh, agreed, “Yeah.  I totally do.”

So, Lorna never knew how she’d come _yea_ close to meeting Trowa’s inner merc.  I guess that was just as well, all things considered.  Especially if I was gonna end up asking her to keep an eye on the place while Tro and I were working for Une.  It’d take a real bulldog to run off the sheep, rowdy teenagers, and bored tourists.  I was all for nominating Lorna for the honor.

It was a day of firsts: first joint shopping-for-daily-necessities trip, first lube and condom purchase, first official date.  (Wait.  Does that progression of events sound backwards to anybody else?  Maybe it’s just me.)

We un-dust-covered our furniture, vacuumed, did laundry, washed up all the dishes and utensils...  Hell, Trowa freakin’ _cleaned the cupboards._   I just let him do whatever.  I was busy looking good in a chef’s apron with soap bubbles up to my elbows.  It was kinda too bad we didn’t have a stereo.  It was totally a day for tunes.  I made a mental note to add it to the shopping list… right under the traps and bait for pesky neighbors.  Heh.

That evening, Trowa and I descended on the town again – walking the kilometer and a bit from our place along the country road this time – for a couple pints of Guinness and a communal viewing of Gaelic football.

Lorna and her husband, Brian, were already there and, given how fast they came over to greet us, they’d clearly been on sentry duty.  We were quickly introduced to the regulars and, after a fast and dirty round of “hey-howya-doin’?”, Trowa and I were seated at a small, round table between Lorna and Brian on our 3 o’clock and couple of old geezers on our 9.  I cheered and whooped when they cheered and whooped.  I booed and bitched when they booed and bitched.

By halftime, the local favorite team had pulled ahead and everyone in the damn place had decided to share their pearls of wisdom with the new guys in town.  By the time we made our escape, I knew more about where the local sheep liked to hide before jumping out in front of passing motorists than I knew about Gaelic football.  It was still fun as hell to watch.  I’d have to look up the rules for next time.

We got back to the house near midnight.  As we climbed the front steps, Trowa dug into his pocket for his key.  I put a hand on his arm to stop him.  “Hey, don’t I get a good-night kiss?” I teased.

“On the front porch?” he queried.

“It’s the end of our date!” I argued persuasively and with a charming grin.

He leaned forward and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to my lips.  “It’s just the beginning,” he corrected me, smiling.

With a line like that, you’re probably thinking we beat a path to the bedroom and made hasty use of those supplies I’d acquired earlier, eh?  Well, you’d be wrong.  We crashed and twined on the sofa watching the world weather report, comparing notes on the different places we’d been.

“Load up on desiccant if you ever wanna go to Asia, babe,” I said at one point, “because Japan takes humidity to a whole new level in summer.”

“Estonia was nice,” Trowa remarked idly when the satellite image of Northern Europe came up on the screen.  “Despite the aggressive population of mosquitoes.”

We dozed off listening to the weather dude give us the Tropical Storm 101 lecture as clouds swirled over the Caribbean Islands on his right.  When I opened my eyes, it was middle-of-the-night dark and the TV station was cycling through the forecast listing for major cities in Africa and Trowa’s hair was tickling my chin.  I had an arm around his shoulders and his head was tucked down against my chest.  At some point, I’d slumped deep into the corner of the sofa, and he was stretched out along the length of it (insofar as he could with those long legs of his).  Oh man.  I knew we were young and nubile, but this was so not gonna be comfortable to wake up to in the morning.

I nudged and nuzzled.  I slid my hand under his shirt to pet and massage his taut belly until he stirred.  “Hm?”

“Let’s go to bed,” I suggested, my voice a little scratchy.  To match the itch developing in my shorts, maybe.  But no.  No, it was the middle of the night.  It’d take a serious influx of either caffeine or adrenaline to inspire an actual follow-through in me at this point.

“Hm,” he said again and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing at Trowa the Drowsy Zombie.  Damn.  You have no idea how badly I wanted a plushie version of him lookin’ like that.  _No_ idea.

I got him up and moving.  After he set a course for the hallway, I turned off the TV and plunged the room into darkness.  I shuffled, drowsy and defenseless, after him into the hall.  That was when he struck.

I yelped as his hand clamped around my wrist and I found myself pulled back against his chest.  “Just how sleepy do you think I am?” he growled, pressing his hips against my ass.  The hard length straining against his fly was very persuasive in coaxing a similar reaction from me.

“Dude, do not play with me,” I retorted.  “You were 100% zombie-fied.”

“I was,” he admitted on a purr, “until I noticed this…”

I leaned back against him as his palm slid over my hip and down to the front of my jeans.

“Uh… whoops?” I breathed, rubbing myself against his hand.  “Can’t keep any secrets from you, can I?”

“Not big ones,” he answered and I could hear the smirk in every syllable of his corny comeback.

I snickered.  “Giving blatant flattery a try now, are we?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Mercenary.”

“Thief.”

That I was.  “Unless you want me to steal your virtue _here,”_ I replied, ignoring the fact that _he_ was the one holding onto _me,_ “you’d better get your ass down to the bedroom.”

He bit my earlobe.  It hurt a little and I jerked even as a zing of something hot and fizzing shot down my spine.  “Make me,” he dared.

Ooooh, baby.  Here we go.

What was that I’d said about having diminished capacity at this time of night?  …yeah, I can’t remember, either.

I twisted out of his grasp.  From there, I could have tripped him, taken advantage of a pressure point, fisted a hand in his hair, or all of the above.  It didn’t matter that it was nearly pitch black.  I could have _owned_ him and some dark part of me was very tempted by that.  But no, I was not gonna go the underhanded route when it came to sex.  It was head on or not at all.

So I went for the jugular.  Pushing aside his shirt collar and the necklace I’d given him, I sealed my lips over the tender skin of his neck.  Yeah-hah!  I had a love mark to repay, didn’t I?

His hands clenched into fists in my shirt.  I rubbed against him, rolling my hips in a suggestive rhythm meant to put him in mind of one thing and one thing only until he groaned.   Groaned but didn’t beat a path for our room.  Hmm…

I lifted my head, my lips and breath brushing over the damp spot on his throat, and complained, “What does a guy have to do to get his husband into bed, huh?”

Trowa chuckled.  “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

I grinned.  If he wanted to play, I’d play.

“One step in the right direction,” I bargained, “one kiss closer to…”  I let my voice trail off as I smoothed a palm down his spine… and over the curve of his ass.

I had an idea, something I’d only ever heard of in passing and – at the time – it had kinda freaked me out, but I was thinkin’ he’d like it… _if_ I got up the nerve to actually try it.

“Intriguing,” he purred and took a step backward, in the direction of our bedroom door.

Grinning in the darkness, I reached for his shirt and with only a brief warning – “Arms up, baby.” – I had it over his head and hitting the floor.  I nuzzled down his neck and along his collarbone, nudging aside his necklace and placing biting kisses every few inches or so.

He took another step back and I followed, tickling his chest with my fingertips before tugging gently at his nipples.  He shivered and took a third step back.  This time, I breathed a trail down to his navel, ringing his belly button with the tip of my nose before giving in to the need to taste him again.  His hips twitched at the first tiny lick from my tongue and I felt his hands in my hair, his fingers playing with the strands like he was sorting through the wires of a detonator.  That is, gingerly.  Very gingerly.  I rubbed my stubbled jaw against his belly, pressed kiss after kiss to his quivering muscles until he took yet _another_ step back.

Now the pants had to come off.  Trowa startled when I rubbed a palm against the bulge in his jeans and I heard him plant his hands – one against each wall in the hallway – to brace himself upright even as his knees sagged.  Making good on my promise, I placed a hot, sucking kiss to the tender space just beneath his belly button as, crouching, I pushed his jeans off his hips and slid them down his legs.

“Duo,” he rasped and the sound of his voice made me shudder helplessly.  “You don’t have to.”

I smoothed a hand up the back of his bare thigh and massaged the muscle there.  “I know.”  That’s all I said.  The next move was his.

He pulled his feet out of the jeans and underwear bunched around his ankles and retreated further down the hall out of my reach.  I couldn’t hear or otherwise sense him breathing in the darkness, so I guessed he was holding his breath, waiting and wondering if I was really gonna… y’know.

I didn’t keep him in suspense _too_ long.  I crept forward in silence and then, with a hand on his hip to steady me, I leaned in—

Trowa gasped as my cheek rubbed along his length.  Encountering the wet tip, I placed a kiss upon it as promised, tasting him and, yes, I liked the flavor very, very much.  The thought of touching any other man like this viscerally repulsed me, but in Trowa’s case, I was never gonna get enough.  I wanted to sample every inch of him and then go back to the beginning for second helpings of everything.

He stuttered my name and I licked him once – slowly, savoringly – in reply.  “Th-the door’s…”

I knew precisely where we were.  And I was well aware that the bed was a very, very _big_ step away.  “I can stop here,” I offered and then gave him a brief, sucking kiss with a hint of teeth.  I think he actually squeaked.  I know he liked it, though, because he hardened even further, bobbing upward against my lips.  “Or there’s one more step…”

“One more step,” he agreed after a moment, his voice thick with desire.  He moved away and I heard him sit down on the bed.

“OK,” I whispered, finding him in the dark and returning to the love mark I’d probably left on his neck.  Settling myself on the bed, straddling his bare thighs, I repeated my journey, tasting and teasing him all over again until I was kneeling on the floor, leisurely enjoying the flavor of him.

He was nearly silent, but he didn’t hold back.  I heard his sparse groans, his breathed encouragements.  I heard the way he said my name, like it was part of a prayer.  I felt the butterfly-soft touches of his fingertips sifting through my hair as his thighs tensed and trembled beneath my hands.  It was probably killing him to keep himself still, to keep his hands from fisting and his hips from searching out a rhythm.  It was lucky for him, then, that I wasn’t interested in tormenting him, in testing his controls, in finding out how long he could hold out.

Honestly, I was kind of curious as to how far I could go.  I leaned back and took a deep breath.  No time like the present to find out.

“Feet on the bed, baby,” I directed.  When he moved back, I took a slight detour, reaching in the bureau drawer to grab the small bottle of lubricant I’d bought earlier and one of the towels we hadn’t used that morning.  I shucked off my shirt and jeans and crawled onto the bed with him, finding him in the dark by touch alone and settling myself between his strong thighs.  With a hand on his jaw for navigation, I lined up our lips and kissed him deeply, wondering if I really could go through with the idea that had popped into my head.

Well, of course I _could._   The question was whether or not I _wanted_ to.  I took a moment and deliberately imagined it... and I shuddered so hard the desire almost broke me.  Did I want to?  The answer to that was most definitely _hell yes._

I still took my time winding him up.  The fact that he was letting me told me he was maybe a little uncertain, too.  Uncertain of what I was gonna do, of what he’d gotten himself in for.  He trusted me, though, and I was not – under any circumstances – gonna betray that.

This time, when I brushed my lips over his length, I took him into my mouth deeply for the first time and, before I’d finished the first stroke, I groaned.  God, he felt so incredible against my tongue, on the inside of my lips, along the roof of my mouth.  I hadn’t expected it to be like this.  This wasn’t about power and submission at all.  It was about connection, about the physical manifestation of what was already true: Trowa was deep inside me just like I was deep inside him.

But I’d promised him one step further, and now I made my move.

He was panting, keening quietly, and I hated to interrupt him, but I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to work up the nerve for this a second time.  I released his length, pressed open-mouthed kisses to the delicate yet taut skin beneath, and then I reached for his thighs, pressing them up and out so that he opened to me completely.

He rasped dazedly, “Duo…?”

“Nothing invasive,” I breathed against perfect, warm skin.  Was I the first to touch him here?  To know this part of him?  I was thinking I was; he sounded too unsure – and yet he was so trusting – for any other explanation to have a chance in hell of being true. 

I turned my head, kissing the soft skin of his inner thighs, and then I slid down just a little further and ran my tongue over that tender spot behind his balls.

I had no words for the sound he made then.  It was a growl, a shout, a groan, and a mewl.  Hell, I had no idea if it had ever been made before in the whole of human history, but I was eager to hear it again.  His thighs had tensed but were slowly relaxing now.  I gave him a reassuring caress before I gently rocked his hips upward, and then I ran my tongue even further down until I felt—

_“Fuck!  Duo!”_

I licked him again and he made that sound again.  That desperate, pleading, growling, gasping, fuck-me-now-Goddammit sound.

Christ, he was hot.  So, _so_ hot.  I had to force myself to pull back.  His scent was heady and he was so, so warm.  There was no corner of him that I was not dedicated to committing to memory, this one included.

“Turn over, baby,” I rasped, and helped him reposition his legs, tugging on his hips so that he was crouching on the bed in front of me, braced on his hands with his knees spread wide.  “Nothing invasive,” I promised again.

“Invade, dammit,” he hissed, pushing back against my hand when I reached for him.

“Not this time,” I answered, massaging his hips.  “Wanna see you when I do…”

He groaned and I leaned forward, nuzzling and nipping his cheeks.

“Duo…” he reminded me and, before he could beg, I licked the sensitive skin over his tailbone and then dragged my tongue down his cleft.  He keened, his hips thrusting mindlessly toward me.  I petted and brushed and circled him with my tongue, feeling him spasm with every helpless, rocking motion of his body.

When I figured he had to be as hard and aching as I was, I sat up and pulled him back onto my thighs.

“Nuh…” he gasped, his hips still moving even though I wasn’t touching him _there_ anymore.  I could tell he was remembering it, relishing it as he wiggled and shifted against me.  I pressed my forehead between his shoulder blades and let myself remember it, too.

I groped for the lube and, uncapping it, warmed what felt like a generous dollop of it in my palm.  Then, bringing my hands together, I smeared the stuff across both.  Reaching around his hip, I collected his straining length in my grasp just as I slid a hand between our bodies and slicked myself with the other.

“Ahh!!”  He threw his head back and suddenly he was thrusting into my grasp and I was sliding against his hot skin, my length caressing his cleft with every roll of his hips.  And, oh fuck, the feel of him around me, even though I wasn’t inside him… _Holyfuckinghell!_

The lubricant still clinging to my palm and fingers made it nearly impossible to maintain my hold on his hip, so I banded my arm across his waist and followed his lead, letting him lean back against me, letting him feel-have-ride against me however he wanted.  I just held on and panted against his skin.

_Oh-sweet-fucking-Goddamn-yes-more!_

We fell into a rhythm, Trowa’s hands grasping my arm across his waist, moving-rocking-groaning-rasping-pleading-praising together until the tingles in the base of my spine collected like the gathering charge of a Buster Rifle.  The end was roaring toward us – it was gonna be _huge_ – and oh God it was gonna kill us both but what a way to die…!

In that moment before completion blasted me apart, my mind cleared of everything.  The roaring of my own blood, the pounding of my heart, the sounds of my groans and Trowa’s voice, hoarse and intermittently rambling – demanding and then exalting – all of it just faded away, like the absence of tide on a beach just before the tsunami hits.

And boy did it hit.  It caught Trowa first.  He _screamed,_ jerking in my grasp and coming, coming, coming, coming—!

And then it hit me and I drowned in it, rolling beneath the waves in darkness.

When I realized I was still breathing, I noticed that I was draped over Trowa, pressed against his back as he lay sprawled on the bed.  With an investigative wiggle, I determined I was soft and there was a sticky mess beneath the both of us.

“Baby?” I checked, my voice hoarse as I tried to lever my shaking self off of him.  “You OK?”

He shuddered.  “No.  I’m never going to be ‘OK’ again,” he deadpanned.  “You killed me.”

I bit back a slightly-hysterical laugh.  “You’re not allowed to die.”

“Too late.”

“You can be a zombie, though,” I bargained generously.  The hand towel seemed ridiculously tiny in my grasp compared to the spillage I was feeling on my thighs, on Trowa’s thighs, on the blanket…  “Or a vampire.  But cover your eyes, Count, I gotta turn on a light.”

“Murf,” he replied and there was a puff of air and a plopping sound that let me know he’d located a pillow and thrown it over his head.

I leaned over and clicked on the lamp.

Oh, _man._   First of all, we’d made one helluva mess.  But, second of all, Trowa was still lying beneath me with legs splayed in a boneless, post-orgasmic, I-don’t-give-a-fuck sprawl and I could see…  Oh, Christ, he was beautiful.  Someday, if he still wanted me, y’know, _that_ way – inside him – I might really have to insist on lights-out because I was not gonna be able to hold out long enough to make it good for him if I got to watch him while I—

“Duo?”

I looked up as the pillow shifted and Trowa caught me kneeling between his thighs, gaping like a brainless moron, fantasies running riot in my brain.

“Let’s be dead together,” I proposed, blindly placing the towel on his thigh.

“What?”  I guess his brain wasn’t up to assimilating one of my sudden 180s this soon after melting and dribbling out of his ears.

I explained, “It’ll save me the trouble of dying over and over again every time we…”  I swallowed.

Trowa blinked and, tucking an arm under him, sat up a bit on his elbow to look at me expectantly.  “When we…?” he prompted.

That _was_ the question.  What had we just done?  What were we gonna call it?  Fucking?  Having sex?  Or…  “Make love,” I heard myself say although it was almost unintelligible thanks to the clogging, rasping, choking quality of my voice.

Trowa stared at me for a moment, and then – with what I’m sure was a monumental effort – he sat up, sorted himself out so that he was facing me on the soggy blanket, and then reached for me.  Before I could remind him where my mouth had been, he was kissing me.  And kissing me.  And _kissing_ me.

The warmth and gentleness of it made me tingle anew and I moaned into his mouth.  He was gonna kill me if he kept this up, but I wasn’t about to interrupt him.

When he finally leaned back, our lips clung for a moment and I almost followed him.  But then he spoke – too softly for me to hear – and I read in the shape of his mouth three words that I’d never really believed would be directed at me.  For a second, I just blinked at him, astounded.  It wasn’t that I doubted him, it was just that I’d never thought he’d actually _say_ it…

He shifted nervously, bringing me back to the here and now.  I reached up to cradle his face in my hands as I mouthed those three words back.   _Fiercely._

He gasped in silence and I pressed a kiss to his jaw, his cheek, his closed eyes, his forehead as he shuddered, grasping my shoulders again and again as if he just couldn’t be sure of his hold on me.  Well, I certainly wasn’t going anywhere.  I wrapped my arms around his waist and guided him to a dry spot on the bed.  It was his turn now to hold on and I kept my arms tight around him – so tight my muscles throbbed – until his inner storm subsided.

I guess I wasn’t the only one who’d never expected (but perhaps secretly hoped) to be given those three little words.

The blanket was a lost cause so that ended up on the floor.  I broke open the pack of wet wipes and we cleaned each other up.  My hands were steady.  Trowa’s were less so, but he insisted.  And, in doing so, I felt myself falling in love with him all over again.

I wound myself around him, both to keep him close and to reassure him that he wasn’t gonna be getting rid of me anytime soon.  I sighed out a breath into his hair and then sleep wadded me up like I was a scrap of paper and pitched me into the waste basket of unconsciousness.

An instant later (well, it felt like it anyway), the pattern of Trowa’s breathing suddenly changed and he shifted beside me.  My eyes snapped open.  Dawn was just making an appearance and the room was filled with a ghostly glow.  I lifted my head from the pillow and blinked at my husband.  We’d rolled apart at some point during the night and now he was holding my palm to his chest, looking back at me in contemplative silence.

“A nightmare?” I asked, doodling patterns against his skin.

He shook his head.  “No, a good dream,” he murmured, his lips pulling into a smile that took my breath away.

“What about?” I ferreted, wondering what could possibly make my Trowa smile with such innocence and delight and pure masculine beauty.

He closed his eyes and sighed.  “You told me you loved me,” he answered and I rolled onto my back, pulling him toward me and into my arms.

I kissed his forehead and then stroked his cheek with my thumb until he opened his eyes again.  “That wasn’t a dream, baby.”  I loved him.  I wanted him.  I chose him.  I was staying with him until he left me or I died, whichever horrible inevitability came first.

“I know,” he replied in a wondering whisper.

“You know a lot, huh?” I teased.

“Yeah,” he answered, and even though it was just one syllable on a breath of sound, I knew exactly what he meant.

We still had other shit to deal with, but I decided it’d wait until after breakfast.  Trowa was of the same mind on it.  After we dumped the dishes in the sink and while I was putting the milk back where it belonged – in the door of the refrigerator – Trowa disappeared down the hall and then came back with two manila envelopes.  Dropping them onto the table, he announced, “We make a good team.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, pulling out a chair and straddling it.  We’d kicked total ass on X18999.  I was lookin’ forward to some variety of an encore, to be honest.  It was a foregone conclusion that we’d sign up with the Preventers.  I mean, I guess we could say to hell with it and take our chances with the War Tribunal.  Maybe Une would get up there and be all boss on our behalf.  But, after that?  Were there any organizations on the planet or in the colonies that would appease the dark parts of ourselves while satisfying our need to make sure that the sacrifices we’d made during the war were not in vain?

Possibly, but they wouldn’t have nearly as many cool toys.

“Whad’ya wanna sign up for?” I asked, tacitly agreeing to spend the next three years working for Une.  I was kinda relieved, to be honest; I didn’t want to risk losing Trowa, our marriage, and what freedom we had in a legal crapshoot.  “They won’t let us go in the field together as partnered agents.”  And, I had to admit that if anyone ever tried to hurt Trowa, my first priority would be to up ‘n’ shoot their sorry ass.  Pulling out the handcuffs and making an arrest would be a very distant second.

“They’d let us pilot.”

That was a definite possibility and it thrilled me that he’d been the one to mention it; he obviously remembered me saying how much I’d missed it.  I grinned.  “Maybe handle surveillance and pre-op reconn.”

Trowa nodded, a secret smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  “Those were the boxes I checked.”

I laughed.  “Me, too.”

“But… if Une won’t agree to partner us up?” he asked, playing the Devil’s advocate.

I shrugged.  “We’ll do something else.”

“Maintenance?” he teased, testing my resolve.

“Why not?  Hey,” I continued in response to his disbelieving look, “sure, I wanna pilot again, but being married to you and flying with someone else would be like… like… two outta three.  Y’know?”

“And that isn’t good enough?”

I reached across the table and brushed my thumb over his wedding band.  “Not anymore.  We’re partners.”  I smiled and summed up with: “Work, life, the whole package.”

He smiled back, his eyes sparkling with happiness.  “OK,” he agreed.  “Looks like I’ve got myself a copilot.”

“Whoa no!” I retorted on a chuckle.  “No way, pal.”

“You doubt my abilities?”

“Never,” I replied, “but you’ll let your husband behind the yoke at least half the time or else.”

“Or else what?” Trowa teased back in a whisper-with-an-edge.

Maybe it was the subject matter, or maybe it was that almost-growl of his: something dark unfurled within me at the challenge, something that had only ever shadowed me on missions, something I’d only ever let out to play in a fight or while sparring, something I’d denied in the hallway last night when I could have turned that little game of how-far-can-I-go into how-far-can-I-bend-him.  It filled me up now and there was no mission for it to fix its terrible focus upon.  Nor was I staring into the face of an enemy or even a friend on a gym mat.

I was looking at Trowa.  And the fact that he wasn’t exactly prey was damn exciting.

Riding the irresistible, cresting tide of aggression building in my gut, I leaned forward and predicted, “Or else you’ll find out.”

“Find out _what?”_ he doggedly questioned, bracing a hand on the table and moving closer.

We were close enough to kiss, to tell you the truth, but what I had in mind was far more sinister.  I grinned.  It was not an expression of mirth.  More like anticipation.  A dozen threats flashed through my mind.  I went for something devious but also innocuous.  I didn’t _have_ to be vicious, but I was _thirsting_ for a fight.  “How happy d’you think our buddy Q-bear would be to hear that we’re renewing our wedding vows?”

Trowa blinked, the teasing light leaving his eyes completely and I saw something that struck a chord in me, something calculating and predatory.

My sharp-toothed grin widened.  “Would he insist on another shopping trip, you think?  Tuxes?  Flowers?  Color schemes?”

Scanning my expression, evaluating the depth of my madness, he growled, “You wouldn’t.”

Maybe not.  Maybe Duo Maxwell wouldn’t do something so utterly evil, but Trowa wasn’t _just_ married to Duo Maxwell, the Gundam pilot.  He was also married to Shinigami and, like it or not, Shinigami was in the room with us right now, glorying in the undercurrent of frothing-churning tension.  “Are you _sure_ about that?”

He studied my expression.  I was grinning so widely that my cheeks were starting to cramp.

“I’ve met your Silencer,” I told him, nodding toward the butcher block and the knife he’d taken with him to the door yesterday.

“And I’ve met your Shinigami,” he replied after a moment.  We both knew there was more to both personas than we’d seen from each other thus far.  While he knew what I’d done to ensure the success of the mission that had won us a second chance, he didn’t know exactly how far I _would have gone_ if necessary.  And while I knew how cold and calculating he could be, I knew I hadn’t even begun to plumb the depths of his mercenary resolve.  Not yet.  Maybe not ever.  But I knew we were gonna have to respect those aspects of each other if we were gonna make this partnership work.

“All right,” he agreed, giving me a hot, dark look.  “Piloting, surveillance, and reconn.  Fifty-fifty.”  And then he closed the distance between us and kissed me.

I used my teeth and so did he.  I never would have guessed that a kiss could be so… feral, but it was.  And it was winding me up faster than I could comprehend.  I pulled back and growled, “Want you.  Now.”

He licked his lips.  “The table again?”

“Whatever.”  I honestly didn’t care.

He rounded the aforementioned obstacle, stalking toward me and I let him come.  I stood my ground, turning to meet him, body taut with tension, vibrating with adrenaline.  He paused just inside my personal space and our gazes locked.  I bared my teeth.  He struck.

I remember the sounds of zippers being undone, a flurry of motion, and then my bare thighs were leaning back against the rounded edges of the furniture and his lips were on mine.  I bit him – his tongue, his lips, his neck, his ear, his shoulder – as I clawed at his jeans.  And then he sank down to his knees, his hands shoving my hips roughly into optimal position, and he was taking me into his mouth and…

_Yesyesyesyesyes!_

I growled.  I grasped the edge of the table for leverage.  It was hot, fast, hard, and merciless.  When I was on the edge, one glorious suck away from exploding, I reached for his neck and gripped him tightly, feeling his pulse shudder against the pad of my thumb.  His hands reached up and clamped onto my wrist, but he didn’t struggle.  He glared up at me through his brows, giving me a look that promised no one would hear my screams as I died at his hands, and held his ground.

“Up,” I ordered and steered him toward the chair I’d abandoned.  He went because he wanted to, not because I’d commanded it – as if I could ever make the man do anything he didn’t want to! – and, when he sat down, I slid onto his lap, straddling his thighs, fitting our hips together and initiating a grinding, punishing rhythm.  We writhed, our mouths and teeth clashing as our hands clawed at one another.

Fuck, if yesterday morning had given us bruises, today was gonna give us scars.

Scars from Trowa’s hands, Trowa’s mouth.  I shivered.  I wanted that.  Some dark part of me wanted those scars.  Wedding rings were for yuppies and romantics.  What Trowa and I had was _more_ than they could ever hope to comprehend.

I came first, snarling, my teeth snapping at Trowa’s ear.  I reached between us, grasped him tightly despite the slickness of my release coating him and pulled like I was hauling him over the edge of a cliff to safety.  He growled through his gritted teeth.

“Come, baby,” I rasped.  His fingers dug into my ass and he just about lifted me off the damn chair with the force of his thrusts.  And then he came, choking on a shout and his next breath.

It was then, as I sat there on his bare thighs with his jeans bunched around his knees under my ass and we both just tried to figure out how to breathe again, that I sort of came back to myself.  I blinked… and then I started to count all the red bite marks and scratches that I could see on his skin.

“Shit,” I panted.  I would have wondered what had come over me if I hadn’t already known.  It’d been too long since I’d wrestled with Heero and that was the first thing I should have done after finding out exactly how Trowa really felt about me.  I’d been hoarding too much inside, ignoring the ticking time bomb in my psyche.  Last night – the confessions we’d exchanged – had capped it all off and then Trowa’s well-meaning but aggression-tinged challenge this morning had tipped the scales, had called the God of Death out.  Yeah, I knew Shinigami was all in my head, but that just made him my responsibility to manage since he was impossible to exorcise completely.  I could only placate the darkness.  I hated myself for only now acknowledging it for the burden it was.

I looked into Trowa’s eyes.  On this rare occasion, his hair had been mussed in such a way that I could see them both.  Endlessly green and glittering.  It was on the tip of my tongue to apologize for saddling him with a freak like me, but I knew I’d only be insulting him.  He knew what darkness lived in me.  It lived in him, too.  We could only fight it with each other, for each other.

It was humbling that he would give me this, even though I knew I gave him the same.  Still, in a perfect world, we wouldn’t need this from each other.  But we didn’t live in a perfect world.  And even if we did, Trowa and I were never gonna be fit for it.  I guess that, more than anything, was what moved me to say—

“I’m sor—”

“Shh,” he shushed me, pulling me forward and speaking into my unbound hair.  (Hold up.  When had I lost the hair tie, dammit?)  “We need this sometimes.  To deny it would be too dangerous.”

I sighed and forgot about the damn ponytail band.  He was right.  We might live in times of peace _now,_ but Shinigami and The Silencer still existed within us just as they always had and likely always would.

“I hurt you.”  I regretted that most of all.

“I hurt you back.”

OK, true, but…  “Let’s _not_ get into some kinky S &M bondage shit, OK?” 

A look of relief briefly flitted across his features.  “Able body, sound mind, expressed consent,” he swore.

“No power games,” I elaborated.

“All right,” he agreed, and that was the end of it.

I grinned, and it wasn’t Shinigami looking out at him through my eyes this time.  “I’m lookin’ forward to this partnership of ours,” I volunteered with abundant optimism.  With any luck we’d see enough action to appease our inner shadows.  Most of the time.  “Pilots for the Preventers,” I drawled waggling my brows.  “We’re gonna need code names.”

Trowa smirked.  “Do we get costumes made from spandex, too?  In primary colors?”

I had no intention whatsoever of letting him wear spandex in public.  No freakin’ way.  But, what I said was: “That might make us a little conspicuous.”

“You think?”

“Hah!” I laughed.  “This from a trigger-happy, knife-wielding, lion-baiting—!”

“Frustratingly secretive, obstinately independent, walking death-wish—!”

I broke off my own litany upon hearing his and cocked my head to the side.  Giving him a contemplative look, I ventured, “Y’know what?  I think we’re gonna be good for each other.”

“Long run or short run?” he quizzed, his hands now moving gently over my thighs.

I leaned in and gave him a soft kiss.  “Let’s find out.”

So, that’s what we did.  We had something like four weeks left before the deadline Une had given us.  We spent them going on short road trips around Connemara and doing the tourist thing—

“Hey, now.  I’m driving, dammit,” I told him as his fingers wandered up the inseam of my jeans along my thigh.

“Dodging sheep at seventy kilometers per hour,” he corrected.

“Apparently, that constitutes driving here.”

“Lucky us.”

We spent the occasional evening during our four weeks of freedom at Mally’s with the football crowd. 

“Wasn’t that a penalty?”

“No one’s bleeding.”

I pointed mutely to a guy who was getting a bandage wrapped around his head by an irritated-looking medic.

Trowa just did that rolling shrug thing of his.  “I’ll check the Internet again.”

We spent one exceptionally long and tiresome day shopping in Galway for computers, a stereo, and, um, more towels.

“I am _not_ getting matching laptops, babe.”

“Afraid I’ll confuse yours with mine?”

“And do what?  Marvel at the complete lack of porn on the hard drive?  No.  I’m actually more leery of stumbling upon your cache of cute cat home videos by mistake.”

Trowa gave me a wryly amused look.  “We don’t have a cat.”

“Yet,” I grumbled.

We spent a good part of those remaining four weeks on the sofa, using our new laptops to surf the Internet and learning everything from how to operate a wood-burning fireplace to the rules of local sports to activities requiring the use of those aforementioned towels.

Speaking of which…

“If you still want me to, uh… y’know, it’s gonna hurt,” I told him one evening out of the blue as he showered and I finished up brushing my teeth.

For a minute, I wasn’t sure he’d heard me.  I winced at myself in the mirror.  I had such amazingly fantastic timing.  Seriously.  I was such a catch.  I rinsed my toothbrush off and speared it into the holder. 

“Duo,” he began.

“I don’t wanna hurt you.  And I’m not gonna be very good at it the first time.  I mean, I’m probably gonna, uh—” _come five seconds after we get started._   “—be kinda quick off the mark.”  I braced my hands on the counter and scowled.  “I want it to be good for you.  Y’know, _really_ good and not it’ll-probably-be-better-next-time.”

As far as I was concerned, we could continue on with our unbroken streak of non-invasive, brain-meltingly hot sex until the end of time.  I never asked him for anything beyond that, but there’d been times since his initial confession that I thought maybe he… well…  Hell, there were times when – in the heat of the moment – he’d groaned my name so deeply and longingly that I’d thought he was about to come right out and ask.  He hadn’t and I didn’t want to make him.  I knew he was waiting for me to offer but I just really wasn’t sure if I _could._

If I hurt him, I would never forgive myself.  But no.  No, I was _not_ gonna let that happen.  Still, it was a foregone conclusion that he’d be disappointed.

The shower spray splattered and gushed and dripped for a long moment.  And then he said, “Duo, get in here.”

I was really in for it now.  I had no idea what had made me bring it up _tonight._   We had a whole five days left before we returned our rental cars and caught a flight to Brussels to sign on the dotted line.  Not that I wasn’t looking forward to the coming challenges, but I didn’t want to spend the last days of our time here in an apologetic funk because I’d totally failed my husband in bed.

“Trowa—”

“Now.”

I blinked.  “Ooo-kay…” I acquiesced, my tone making my misgivings clear.  I pulled off my T-shirt and shorts and got into the shower.  The first thing I noticed was how gorgeous my husband looked when he was naked with water sheeting over him.  The second thing I noticed was that he was more than half hard.  I gave him a look.

“You’re—?  Just from me mentioning it just now?” I dared to ask, disbelieving.

“Yes,” he growled and pulled me under the spray with him.  I’d already had a shower earlier, but I didn’t mention it.  I was busy being kissed stupid.  His mouth was just as hot as ever and his tongue just as insistent yet soft.  God, he tasted incredible and I hoped to whatever powers-that-be that I’d never, ever grow desensitized to it.  When I groaned, Trowa let me come up for air and then took one of my hands off his hip and pressed a bar of hypoallergenic soap into it.  “Lather up,” he whispered, nuzzling my ear.

“Oh shit.  This so should not happen here,” I protested.  I was pretty sure it’d be better for him if he had total control despite being on the receiving end.  I ought to be under him so he could move however he liked for as long as I lasted.  Besides, I’d be able to see him and I’d have a better indication of whether or not he was in any pain…

“Humor me,” he purred persuasively, rubbing his chest against mine.

I bit back the choice selection of swear words that clamored to join the discussion and lathered my hands.  “Look, baby, are you _sure…?”_

“Yes,” he told me and then turned, bracing his arms against the wall of the shower, and angled his hips toward me invitingly.

I stared at the expanse of his back, studied the burn scars he’d told me one lazy morning spent in bed that he couldn’t remember acquiring, and when my gaze dropped to the globes of his ass I felt suddenly lightheaded.  I guess having all the blood in your body congregate in one organ can have that effect on a guy.  I set the soap back on the shower rack, leaning forward and, in the process, rubbing my hardening length right where he was determined it end up.

His hands curled into fists against the tiles.  “Duo…”

“I’m not teasing,” I promised and placed my palms on his ass.  I watched a shudder roll through him as I caressed soapy circles on his skin, and then I placed two fingers at the base of his spine and ran them due south.

He cried out when I brushed his entrance.  I could not freakin’ _believe_ how wound up he was.  Over the last three weeks, I’d gotten this reaction only when I was tonguing him.  Now I was barely touching him, but he was probably already two or three steps ahead, imagining having me inside him.

Right.  No tormenting my Trowa.  I’d made a promise to myself to never do that to him, no matter what.  I had to trust him even if I was uncertain.  _Especially_ if I was uncertain.

I circled his entrance and massaged, petting that muscle until he was pushing back against me, his head bowed between his raised arms.  He said my name again and I twisted my wrist, sliding a single finger inside him.  Oh Christ he was tight-hot-damn—!

I took a deep breath and began the massage again, this time working from the inside.  The way he was moving against me was killing me.  I leaned forward and pressed open-mouthed kisses to his spine.

“Oh, baby.  You are so, _so incredible.”_   It was inconceivable that he wanted me – _me_ – this way.  If I were really asleep right now, this would be both a dream and a nightmare.

He groaned softly.  “Darling,” he pleaded.  “Another…”

I pulled out and slowly eased in a second, marveling at how fuckin’ hot he was and how badly I wanted to just keep on touching him here.  Ten minutes ago, I hadn’t really been all that interested in having my fingers inside him (although I’d known that, objectively, that was probably how it was gonna eventually happen) but now there was nothing theoretical or objective about it.

I dared a third, but not deeply.  I mostly held still while he pushed back against me.

“Trowa, baby, what—?  Where—?”  God, I was so suave.  I couldn’t even ask my husband how he wanted to do this.

“Here,” he panted.  “Here, Duo.  Here.”

“No condom,” I reminded him.

_“Here.”_

Here it was, then.  I withdrew my hands from him to lather up once again.  I tried to ignore my own touch as I slicked my length.  Reaching around his hip with my other sudsy hand, I grasped him and hoped the sensation would distract him from any discomfort I couldn’t negate entirely.  If his appreciative whine was any indication, I was on the right track.

“Hold still, baby,” I implored as I aligned myself with him.

“Nugh…!” he protested-insisted-complained, wiggling in my grasp.

I gripped his hip with one slippery hand.  I was just nudging his entrance and this show was gonna be over before it got started if he kept doing that!

 _“Still!”_ I ordered out of desperation.  He went motionless but his fists tightened until the muscles and tendons of his wrists and forearms stood out in painful relief.  Hell, even the ropes of muscle on either side of his spine tensed.  Slowly, but firmly, I pressed forward.  He pushed back and I was sliding in.

“Oh… _fuck,”_ I informed him, gritting my teeth to keep from losing it and giving in to the involuntary urge to just _fuck him into the Goddamn shower wall._

“Nuh!  Duo…!”

“A moment,” I begged, squeezing my eyes shut.  I was inside him – _completely_ inside him – and I’d been right about this being over too fast.  Panting, I reached down and had to readjust things so I didn’t finish in the next three seconds.  “Are you OK?” I rasped.  “Pain?”

 _“Please,”_ he groaned and my heart stopped.  “Move...”

“Like this?” I tried to articulate, tentatively pulling out a bit before sliding back inside him.

“Ah!  Yes!”

I repeated the motion.  “Oh God, baby.  You know I wanna keep this up as long as you can stand it but I _can’t.”_

Adjustments or no adjustments, I was gonna come embarrassingly fast.

“Just… just once more, once more, once more,” he chanted and I focused on his voice as I moved against him, with him, _inside_ him.  He rocked with me, his length surging to and fro in my slick grasp.

I lost count of how many once-more’s I managed.  I knew I should be trying to angle my thrusts to hit his sweet spot but I could barely cope with keeping the rhythm.  As that telltale rush gathered at the base of my spine, I leaned forward until I could press my chest against his back, molding us together.

“Trowa…  Baby, I’m inside you,” I observed, aching to come but trying to hold out for just one more once-more.  “Just like you’re inside me.”  I would probably want to shoot myself for the sappy line later, but at this precise moment, I was too preoccupied with Trowa’s sudden, gasping shout.  I kept this angle for two more thrusts and then my self-control snapped and I was moving too fast, too hard, probably hurting him, but I just couldn’t control it anymore and I was coming—

I screamed against his shoulder as I came and came and came and _came_ deep inside him.  I wasn’t even aware of the rest of my body.  Everything just went white.

And then I took a breath and awareness rushed back into me.  Trowa was trembling against the wall.  I was still leaning against his back.  My hand was still grasping him, but he was soft.  He’d come?  Or had it been that bad at the end?  I knew I should have felt it if I’d brought him off, but I’d totally lost it there and I had no idea if…

“Baby?  Are you OK?”  _Please be OK.  Please, please, please…_

I eased out of him slowly, looking for signs of injury, but I didn’t see any.  Taking heart in that, I gently turned him and had to use my lightning-fast reflexes to brace him up when his feet suddenly slid out from under him.

I called to him again and he blinked at me with eyes gone dark with dazed confusion.  He was so quiet I assumed the worst.  “First, last, and only time.  I promise, baby.  I’ll never ask—”

Trowa took a deep breath and lifted a shaking arm, pressing his hand over my mouth.  “If that was the first, last, and _only_ time,” he gasped out in a whisper, “I’ll kill you.”

“You… you’re OK?”  Could I be this lucky?

“Yes,” he moaned on a whisper and pulled me close for a messy, aimless, completely uncoordinated kiss.  Holy crap.  I’d fucked him so far past senseless he’d lost control of fine motor function.

Somewhere in my mind, emergency support systems came online and I accessed a normally-hidden reserve of strength and focus.  I took over, pulling him into my arms and holding him steady until he found his balance.  Once he was standing on his own, I shut off the water and opened the shower door.  It took a bit of maneuvering, but I got us both dried off, transported across the hall, and tucked into bed.  He was out before his still-wet head hit the pillow.

Damn.

I lay there for a couple of minutes watching him sleep, gently brushing his damp hair out of his face.  It kind of hit me then that he was my husband and I was his and nothing was ever gonna change that fact.  Not now.  And no force on Earth or in space was ever gonna separate us.  Not even Director Une.

Less than a week later, she tried, but it was a halfhearted attempt at best.

“And if I refuse your request to partner each other?” she challenged.

I shrugged, grinning amicably.  “Then you’ve got yourself two new motor pool mechanics for the next three years.”

She frowned at us.  I didn’t have to look at Trowa to know he was with me on this.  Our time in Ireland had given us the chance to deepen our non-verbal communication skills.  All I had to do was shift my weight or tap my fingers in reaction to a comment or a look and he’d read my intent.  It worked the other way around, too, of course, but Trowa tended to let me take point, stepping in to make course corrections with a wry remark or a well-said observation.  I was pretty sure the citizens of Clifden were still trying to figure us out.  Which reminded me: I owed Guillaume and Pierra Juarez a thank-you letter and a photo of me and the husband they’d helped me realize I loved.  Besides, I was sure the guys at the garage would get a kick outta it.

But that shit was for later.  At the moment we were negotiating for our future with the woman in charge of our reputations.  Given that fact, we hadn’t poked around town after our arrival; we’d stepped off the plane and come directly here.  So here we were _._   It was painfully easy to see that Une really wanted our asses behind desks, doing something investigative and awesome that she could take credit for, but I just didn’t have it in me to be that accommodating.

“There aren’t any openings in the motor pool,” she informed us in a guarded tone.  Oh yeah, she knew what our skill sets were and she wanted them covered by a pair of official badges.  But, hey, I just gotta be _me._

“Oh.  OK.  We’ll take Building Maintenance, then,” I parried.

Une’s brows drew together in a frown.  She tapped her pen impatiently upon the ink blotter.  “Your former comrades have all chosen active roles.  Mr. Chang and Mr. Yuy – now Mr. Yukitani – have signed up for field positions.  Mr. Winner is on the fast track for Operations Management.”

“Good for them,” I said.  “Can I request the name I want on my janitor’s uniform?  I’ve decided I’m more of a ‘JC’ than a ‘Joe’.”

“Mr. Cross—”

“ _Mister_ Cross?  Nah.  Too long.  Nobody’ll be able to read the writing if I have all that put on.”

Une glared at me.  Trowa cleared his throat, signaling that I was hamming it up again.  I decided now was a good time to rest my case.

“It is highly irregular to have a flight crew – _or_ a surveillance team – consisting of a married couple,” the director pointed out.

“Irregular,” Trowa replied levelly, “but not against regulations.”

See, now I would have argued that a couple of exceptional guys like us required exceptional circumstances.  But, I suppose Trowa’s point was a bit more black-and-white than mine would have been.

“Well,” she replied after looking from me and my pleasant smile to my blank-faced husband.  (Whoo yeah.  You don’t play poker with that face and hope to win.  You just _don’t.)_   “Welcome to the Preventers, Pilot Cross, Pilot Armstrong.”

I tried not to gloat.  Well, not until we’d left her office, anyway.

“Home, sweet home,” I declared as we stepped into housing unit number fifty-four once again.

“That makes Clifden the honeymoon cottage?”

I grinned and, reaching out, snagged his belt loop.  “Hey now, who said the honeymoon was over?”

He gave me a long look that ended with his lips curling into a suggestive smile.  “Ah, taking things to the next level, are we?”

“Whaddya say?” I challenged in a teasing whisper.  “You think you can beat me in the prelim training mile tomorrow?”

“Definitely, and when I do…”

“Oh, so it’s to be gloating and posturing rights, is it?”

“No,” he growled.  “It’ll be rights to _this.”_

He leaned in and kissed me, ending with that Goddamn lip-sucking thing that made me shiver and groan.  “Damn,” I enthused.  “You _are_ insatiable.”

“Hmm,” he agreed.  He might have followed that up with a demonstration if the doorbell hadn’t chimed right then.  I bit back a snicker as Trowa’s gaze slid toward the door and his expression pulled into an adorably pissy glare.  “We do not have good karma with apartments.”

“If that’s Sally on the other side, I will agree with you 100%,” I promised, sliding out of his arms and punching the door release.

I wasn’t joking about not wanting to face Sally on the threshold so soon after arriving, but, as it turned out, she wasn’t there.

“You _are_ back!” Quatre enthused, looking one and a half shades past tickled pink.  Flanking him stood Heero and Wufei.  Heero looked… uh, normal, I guess.  Wufei was giving me a smug little grin that made me want to yank on his ponytail.

“Yup.  JC and Tristan are back!” I replied, slipping them our new names just in case they weren’t sure what they were supposed to call us.

Wufei, who I was pretty sure had kept his birth name, answered, “Yes, Gerald, Quatre, and I can see that.”

“Gerald?” I squawked, giving Heero a flummoxed look.

“Yes?” he answered.  Damn.  _Gerald._   What was I supposed to do with that?  I was tempted to call him “Gerry” but Trowa didn’t have any knives hidden on his person and I was out of practice with escaping headlocks.

“Huh,” I told him.

“Call me ‘Yukitani’ if you prefer.”

“Too many syllables,” I complained.

Quatre – who apparently hadn’t accepted his alternate identity either – laughed.  “Join us for dinner,” he more or less ordered, but he did it nicely so I didn’t get grouchy with him over it.

“Sure.  Why not?” I answered gamely.  “You can buy future pilots Cross and Armstrong the first round.”

“No alcohol on Preventers premises,” Wufei informed us.

I cackled.  “Who said anything about celebrating _here?”_

“Humor us,” Trowa appealed to their hesitant expressions and I loved him even more for backing me up.

So, we dragged our old buddies out onto the street and I went in to reconnoiter a couple pubs before settling on one with an Irish flare, winning a knowing grin from Trowa, a baffled look from Q-bean, and a quick scan-for-threats from Heero – excuse me, _Gerald_ – and Wufei.  I ordered the first round and glared at Wufei until he paid for it.  Heh.

I’m sure it’s no surprise to you that Quatre is a cute drunk.  Heero started waxing philosophical after his third beer and Wufei was dozing on Quatre’s shoulder, drooling on the poor guy’s pastel green cardigan, halfway through his second.

But it wasn’t as if I was one to talk.  The stool, the bar itself, and Trowa’s shoulder were all working in concert to keep me upright and if any one of them suddenly disappeared, I was gonna be kissin’ the floor.  “Who’s buying the next round?” I asked, perhaps a tad loudly.

Trowa reached around and pinched my lips together with his thumb and forefinger.  “You did not just say that,” he declared, blinking at me a bit blearily.

I was pretty sure I had, though.  Hah hah!  He couldn’t fool me!  “Let’s play rock-paper-scissors for it,” I suggested winningly.

Quatre snorted with helpless mirth.  “Two out of three?”

My lips twitched even as something clicked in my brain.  I blinked at him.

_Two out of three…_

The phrase shot me back in time to the evening before my wedding, to arm wrestling with Q and the negotiations we’d partaken in prior to that.  It shot me back in time to Deathscythe’s cockpit where I’d decided I wasn’t gonna insult Trowa by settling for – and I quote – “two out of Goddamn three.”  It shot me back in time to an oak table in a little house in Clifden where I’d confessed that having a career without Trowa playing an active role in it was just not gonna be good enough.

Now, it shot me into a whole new realm of thinking.  With a start, I realized that our codenames during the war had been Pilot 02 and Pilot 03, respectively.  And I’d found myself – my _best_ self – thanks to Trowa.  So, that was two outta three, too, wasn’t it?

Maybe it was just my alcohol-addled brain that made it seem so profound but… it really gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “best out of three.”  And it was an interpretation I liked very much, indeed.

“Two out of three,” I mused, glancing over my shoulder and grinning dopily at my husband.  “Yup.  I guess you could say that.”  I lifted my glass.  “Here’s to ‘best outta three’.”

Q lifted his nearly-empty mug in a token gesture, and then Wufei’s since the guy couldn’t do it himself (hell, he didn’t even open his eyes as the movement of Quatre’s arm jostled him, just grunted once in complaint).  Heero solemnly saluted, looking like maybe he thought he knew what the hell I was rambling about.

I turned toward Trowa and, elaborated quietly, “Pilot 02 is at his best thanks to Pilot 03.”

An unfettered grin stretched his lips, forming a breathtaking smile.  “It works both ways.”

“Are you sure?” I teased, giving him a speculative look.  “The math doesn’t seem right to me.”

“It is,” he insisted.

“Prove it,” I dared.

Trowa set his beer on the bar and then looked back at me, still smiling.  He leaned in, reaching for my mug, and rumbled in my ear, “I intend to.”

I grinned.  That was our cue.  “Thanks for the party, guys,” I told Heero and Quatre.  Wufei snored softly in reply.  “But I gotta get home before my husband gets pissed.”

“We already _are_ pissed,” Trowa observed quietly, taking a little U.K. slang out for a spin and tapping into the joke I’d set up.  Yeah, we were pretty drunk – a.k.a. pissed – but I figured a five-minute walk would perk us back up.  The night was young, after all, and we still hadn’t given our new bed a good test run.

Quatre snorted out a giggle.  “So, I guess we’ll see you in the morning?”

He was right to make it a question.  I barked out a laugh as Trowa helped me off the stool.  “Now’s the time to place bets on it.  G’night, Win-meister.  Later, Gerald.”

I gave them all a little wave and then Trowa and I were tumbling out onto the sidewalk.  “You think they’re gonna be OK in there all by themselves?” I asked as Concern dropped in for a belated visit.

Trowa snorted.  “Definitely.  Wufei’s been trying to get me to take you home for the past twenty minutes.”

“Eh?”

“Every time you took a drink, he’d kick me.”

“Ungrateful bastard.”

Trowa slung an arm over my shoulders and I wrapped one around his waist.  There was something about doing the three-legged monster walk home from a bar with your lover that put you in a sappy mood.  I proved it by remarking: “We have an awesome bunch of friends, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, turning his face toward me and speaking into my hair.  “We do.”

I sighed.  “Y’know, we never did attain complete freedom—”

“As if anyone does.”

“True, but… I’m glad we’ve got three more years together.  The five of us, I mean.”

“Me, too, darling.”

“Do you really think I make you your best?” I asked suddenly.  The Preventers compound was within sight, but I just couldn’t keep a lid on the question until we got inside.

Trowa stopped right there on the sidewalk and, turning me in his arms, said, “You really do.”

And then he kissed me.  Right there in full view of the whole damn world.  If this was gonna be the tone we set for our marriage… I could get used to it.  When he gently pulled away, I smiled and whispered, “Let’s go home, baby.”

We did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The part about mouthing those "three little words" to each other was also used by Shoori in her 2x3x2 fic, "You Say It Best," which can be found on raygunworks' site – "a little piece of gundam wing" – and is one of my all-time fic favs.
> 
> The last bit there (i.e., "I could get used to it!") brings to mind the ending of the movie "How to Train Your Dragon" (which I adore).
> 
> Irish Gaelic football is AWESOME. Seriously, I need this on satellite TV. It is my life's ambition to get our local company to give it a regular slot in their program schedule. 
> 
> Lorna's dialog was initially kinda of blah so a BIG THANK YOU to waterlilylf for supplying me with much more authentic phrasing for Mrs. O'Michael.
> 
> Aaaaand, thanks to waterlilylf, I learned about Barm Brack which “is a kind of fruit loaf made with tea.” It sounds lovely! And although I’m told it’s traditionally made around Halloween (and it’s nowhere near Halloween at this time in my fic, although I never really say what time of year it is), let’s just assume that Lorna loves making it.
> 
> According to the Episode Zero manga, Trowa has burn scars on his back that he can’t remember getting. The author(s) hint that these scars might have been caused by an explosion, and we know that Catherine Bloom’s parents and little brother (a toddler at the time) had been in an explosion. So it might be possible that Catherine’s little brother survived after all… (But we all know he did, and he’s Trowa. Even if he has green eyes and Catherine has blue... which is kinda weird but not impossible, I guess.)
> 
> So, that’s the end of “Two out of Three”… but not the end of this fic universe. Keep an eye out for several side fics which follow “JC” and “Tris” in their new life together. Plus, I’m pretty sure they’ll end up giving Preventer Agent Wufei Chang a hand with an upcoming high-profile case in the sequel, “Tag & Other Backyard Games”.
> 
> Oh! And before I forget… Did anyone catch Trowa’s birthdate in this universe? February 3, 179? 2/3? Yeah, there’s another two out of three for ya.
> 
> Don’t forget to ogle the fanart for “Two out of Three” on my GW fanfic LiveJournal: themanwell.livejournal.com
> 
> If you enjoyed “Two out of Three”, don’t be shy: leave a comment. Praise feeds the hungry beast of Inspiration. Uh-hm. Yes, it does.


	19. A Night In (a short TooT continuation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows “Two out of Three” – Duo POV. Smexy fluff. PWP. Takes place after Duo and Trowa have returned to Brussels and joined the Preventers.

I was going to have him.  There were no if’s, and’s, or but’s about it.  That ass was mine.

He walked into the room like he owned the place, his hips rocking to the beat with every step.  Fuck.  My gaze snagged on the thigh-hugging jeans, traveled up to the aforementioned ass of luscious proportions, then along the sexy-as-hell curve of his lower back to the black tank top just freakin’ _clinging_ to his torso.

Oh, man.  He was lickable.  Every damn inch of him.

I watched him move to the beat, the dim lights teasing me with brief glimpses of the curve of a bare bicep, the flat plane of his belly…

Fuck this.  I knew my limits and I just could not take it anymore.

I unfolded myself from my seat.  I stalked him.  Then, when I was within range, I snatched the towel from his hands and tossed it on the floor.  His green gaze glittered at me from behind the tousled fall of his partially-dried hair.

“I was using that,” he pointed out.

“Use me instead,” I growled and leaned in for a kiss.  His arms came around me and I was pulled flush against him.  Oh God.  _Yes._   I rocked my hips against his in time with the music playing on the stereo until I heard him groan softly.

He broke our kiss and tucked his nose behind my ear, inhaling deeply.  “So, can I assume this means we _aren’t_ going out to the bar tonight after all?”

I chuckled darkly, “Not unless you want me to do _this_ on the dance floor.”  I demonstrated what I had in mind, pressing my palm against the crotch of his sinfully tight jeans, and began kissing my way down his neck with little licks and brief sucks.  Yummm.

“Are you insane?” he rasped.  “What makes you think I’m letting you leave the room before you finish what you’ve started?”

I chuckled darkly as I backed him up against the arm of the sofa.  “That’s what I love about you, baby,” I told him.

“I’m a man of high standards?” he guessed as his hands found their way under my slightly-too-small, black T-shirt.

“You read my mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you’ve no doubt guessed, this little ficlet has ZERO bearing on the plot of the TooT!verse. It was just a fun idea that popped into my head: write a scene that reads like a first-meeting at a club or bar and then turn it around. 
> 
> There are several short installments to come (before the sequel “Tag and Other Backyard Games” starts) which do have an impact on the TooT!verse: a flashback, explanations, new relationships, new traditions and ambitions, plus LOTS of Duo/Trowa character development. (What? Just because they’re an official couple that doesn’t mean they can just kick back next to the Pool of Marital Bliss and be eye candy. Although, I must say, that is a lovely visual.)


	20. Filling in the Blanks (a TooT continuation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows “Two out of Three” – Duo decides to share a part of his recent past with Trowa. Trowa POV. Takes place after Duo and Trowa have begun training to be pilots for the Preventers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the end of "Two out of Three," Trowa and Duo give up their old identities and start using new names. Trowa goes by Tristan Armstrong and Duo goes by Joseph "JC" Cross.

“Where are we going?”

It was our first weekend off since starting Preventers training.  I was tired and my brain was overloaded with the unnecessary minutiae of by-the-book bureaucracy.  I’d been looking forward to spending Saturday and Sunday in bed with my husband, not rolling out of it at the first hint of daylight and following him blindly around on a mysterious jaunt through the countryside.

Although, the way he looked now – energized and happy – made it very difficult for me to cling to my frustration.

Across from me, Duo leaned back in his seat, one knee pulled up and the corresponding elbow propped up along the top of the cushion.  It was disconcerting to see him sprawled thusly in public even if the train was mostly empty of passengers at this hour.  It made me think of how I’d come out of the shower earlier in the week and found him in bed, wearing nothing but his boxers as he’d looked through the day’s homework reading.  The spiral bound textbook had been laid open across his bent knee, his other leg stretched out as if in invitation.  I smirked as I remembered how I’d accepted.  In the end, we’d had to get up an hour early the next morning and consume copious amounts of coffee in order to finish the required reading before reporting for the next day of training.

“Hmm,” he purred.  “I wonder what you’re thinking about…”

I gave him a look.  “Ask me and I’ll tell you.”  It was more than a promise.  It was a threat.  I didn’t care that we were on a train bound for Marseilles.  My self-control was non-existent when it came to answering any and every challenge Duo issued, be it intentional or not.

“How generous of you to offer,” he replied cheekily.

I crossed my arms.  Not because I was offended but because I was one of his sexy smirks away from yanking him onto my lap and kissing him until we pulled into the service station at the end of the line.

“Thank you.  You might return the favor,” I remarked as blandly as I could.  Some days, it was almost impossible to get a solid grip on the emotionless mask I’d once worn so easily.

“How would you like me to do that?” he asked, giving me that wide-eyed, innocent look of his.  How devious.  He must _know_ what that look does to me.  I curled my fingers tighter around my biceps.

“You could perhaps tell me where we are headed.”

Duo shrugged a shoulder.  “You wouldn’t believe me if I did.  Here, have a sandwich.  It’s gonna be a while.”

I caught the convenience store-bought, plastic-wrapped bundle in one hand.  I tried to glare at him but my mouth kept twitching into a grin.  His energy was infectious.  I sighed and turned back to the window, telling myself that even if I wasn’t content to watch the scenery roll by while I ate my pre-fabricated sandwich, it passed the time at least.  And when Duo was determined to be mysterious, time slowed to a crawl.  It was a scientifically proven fact.

Six hours, an assortment of sandwiches and numerous cups of stale coffee later, we were nowhere near Marseilles when Duo suddenly stood and collected his duffel bag.  “Next stop is us,” he announced and I just about tripped over my own feet unfolding myself from the seat and hurrying after him.

It was a good thing I’d kept him in my sights; the train stopped for all of one-point-five seconds before it was rolling on its way and this tiny, rural station had already been forgotten by the passengers still aboard.

“Where are we?” I asked, thoroughly befuddled.

Duo shouldered his duffel and headed for the station exit like he’d been here before.  “C’mon, babe.  Let’s see if our ride’s here.”

“Our… ride…” I retorted, striding after him.  I caught up as he handed his ticket over to the clerk on duty.  This station was remarkably old fashioned; the cities and larger towns had all installed electronic ticketing systems at the gates.  Only in quiet, little country towns like this was the position still held by an actual human being.  I passed the uniformed officer my ticket, keeping an eye on my unusually enigmatic husband.  He paused just on the other side of the turnstile barrier and waved to someone.

I looked up and blinked.  An elderly couple was waiting by the station doors, waving back.

“Duo?” I objected.  This was my limit.  If he didn’t tell me what the hell was going on, I was going to have to insist on a full and immediate disclosure.

He turned toward me, grinning.  “Welcome to Farmville, babe.  Also known as The Place Where JC Hid Out For Twelve Weeks Before He Grew A Pair And Decided To Beg His Husband To Take Him Back.”

I laughed, giddy with relief.  “I don’t think that’ll fit on the ‘Welcome to Farmville’ sign.”

“Yeah.  Too bad, huh?”

“And the welcome committee?” I pressed, nodding toward the elderly couple without taking my eyes off of Duo’s bright expression.

“The people who took me in.”  He reached out and grasped my arm.  “And, to tell ya the truth, I’ve been wantin’ you to meet ‘em for a while.”

I felt my entire being soften in response to his confession.  He was endearingly nervous, beautifully frank, and looked startlingly young.  It was all I could do to _not_ tuck him into my embrace and just hold on until the end of time, murmuring reassurances and endearments in his ear.

I reached out and gently tweaked his chin.  “Then what’s the hold up?  Introduce us.”

Duo very nearly _bounced_ over to the elderly couple – a Guillaume and Pierra Juarez – and it was only as I shook their hands and murmured the socially-acceptable pleasantries that his enthusiasm suddenly failed to distract me from the nervous fluttering in my stomach.  Watching Duo being exuberantly enfolded in Pierra’s petite arms, I realized that these people were probably the closest thing to family Duo had.  It would kill me if I disappointed Duo by disappointing _them._

“Don’t be so anxious, Tristan dear,” Pierra told me as I held the car door open for her.  Duo was loudly informing Guillaume of the unfortunately bald state of his car’s tires, so our exchange went unnoticed.

“I’m not…”  The denial was automatic, but I fought it down.  Duo was his real self with these people.  He’d expect no less from me.  “You and your husband are very dear to him,” I said instead.  Although he hadn’t mentioned them before today, just watching him with them was enough for me to discern that much.

“But _you_ are more so,” she argued, patting my arm.  “In all the time he stayed with us, never did he look half this happy.”

And then she left me standing there holding the door open as she slid into the passenger seat.  The sound of the driver’s side door closing snapped me out of my daze and I carefully shut Pierra’s door before climbing into the backseat with Duo.  I endeavored to keep my disquiet tightly restrained, but there was no denying that I was in unfamiliar territory.  I flushed with sudden temper, wishing Duo had told me what to expect earlier.  If he had, I would have been able to better prepare myself for this meeting and—

A touch on my knee drew my attention and I looked down at Duo’s hand which rested there.  His thumb brushed back and forth over the weave of my jeans even as he leaned forward to ask Pierra about her grown sons and their families.  As she started giving the requested update, Duo glanced my way apologetically and mouthed two words at me: “Thank you.”

I let out a breath and leaned back against the seat.  I slid the hand closest to him under the edge of his jacket and pressed my palm against the small of his back.  How could I be angry with him?  He’d probably been as nervous on the train as I was now.  Suddenly, I realized that he hadn’t been all that sure of his reception, which was perhaps why he’d waited until he’d seen them at the station before telling me why we’d come here.  He’d undoubtedly contacted Guillaume and Pierra in advance, but the unwanted child he’d once been wouldn’t have trusted their welcome until he’d seen it with his own eyes.

It was a miracle that anyone with such deep and eternal emotional scars would trust me, a man who knew more about mobile suits and machine guns than how to care for another human being.

Thanks to the sandwiches we’d had on the train, we weren’t especially hungry, but Pierra had prepared lunch for us and I was mesmerized by the look of ecstasy on Duo’s face when he sampled his first spoonful of meat pie.

“Oh, Pierra,” he enthused after chewing and swallowing.  “How I have missed your magic!”

The pie was excellent, but it was difficult to enjoy at the moment as my stomach filled with envy.  I wanted Duo to look like that when _I_ did something for him.  Part of me wanted to shoot someone, but the mercenary in me knew better.  _Fight fire with fire._

I resolved on a plan of action and, after that, I was much better able to relax and enjoy the meal.  Over coffee, Guillaume and Pierra requested the story of how Duo and I had first met.

“Uh, well, I told you that I fought in the war,” Duo began, fidgeting with his coffee spoon.

“I did as well,” I readily admitted, sensing that he wouldn’t willingly speak of our shared past without my consent.

“Comrades in arms?” Guillaume guessed.

“Eventually,” I told him.  “If I remember correctly, we initially considered each other enemies.”

“Dude!  You’d just shot a half a dozen rounds from your suit’s Machine Cannon at me!”

It would have taken considerably more than that to put so much as a dent in Deathscythe.  “You and Yukitani were all bunched up.  The enemy was moving in to flank you.”

“Ever hear of something called a comm. unit?”

“That would be the thing you were using to whoop and holler at the enemy lines?”

His lips twitched into a smirk and his eyes sparkled with fire.  “Yup.”

“I’ll keep it in mind for next time,” I promised and took a sip of coffee.

Pierra reached for her husband’s arm and patted his sleeve.  She was beaming at us with pure delight, as if we’d just told her a story about two strangers, their chance meeting on a rainy day, and their impulsive decision to share an umbrella or a taxi.

“Guillaume, what was JC saying about the tires on the car?” she asked when it became clear that Duo had told as much of our story as he was comfortable sharing.

Duo answered before Guillaume could.  “You really, _really_ need a new set.  Hell, I’ll even put ‘em on for you.”

“And how much is that going to cost me, son?” Guillaume bantered back.

Duo chuckled and lifted his plate as if the remains of the pie were made of gold and he was taking a weight measurement.  “Well, let’s say half now and half at dinner?”

“Oh, JC!  We don’t expect—!” Pierra protested.

Duo cut her off.  “No, really.  I’d be happy to do it.”

And I knew he would be, too.  Besides, it would give me the opportunity I needed to implement my plan.  “Let him,” I advised the Juarezes, “or else he’ll just worry that it wasn’t done right.”

At the conclusion of coffee, Pierra offered to show me to the room I’d be spending the night in with Duo.  As he was busy educating Guillaume on the difference between traditional rubber, neo-resin, and eco-wear tires, I took both our mostly-empty duffel bags down the hall.

“Pierra,” I said before she could give me a few minutes to get settled, “thank you for opening your home to him then.  And thank you for doing the same for both of us now.”

“You are most welcome, Tristan.”

“And, I have a favor to ask.”

“Yes?”

I named it.

She smiled.  She patted my arm, a satisfied twinkle in her eye.  “Come and see me in a few hours.”

I nodded and tried not to look too triumphant when I returned to the kitchen.  I was quickly pulled into a discussion involving various kinds of tire tread. Colorful sales flyers had been dug out of the newspaper recycling bin and spread out over the kitchen table like a buffet for cars.

“Back me up, here, babe,” Duo ordered, gesturing to the ads.

I didn’t even have to look.  “If it freezes here for more than a night at a time in winter, you don’t want neo-resin.  Get eco-wear only if you drive on asphalt or concrete – it’s useless on dirt and gravel.”

“See?” Duo concluded with a satisfied nod.

Guillaume sighed, picking up an ad for traditional rubber tires and making a moue of disgust at the price.  “This is extortion,” he grumbled.

“It would be if _you_ were paying for it,” Duo told him.

Guillaume objected by removing his reading glasses and pointing the earpiece at him accusingly.  “Now, see here, son, you’re our guest and—”

“And I’ve got full-time employment now so there’s no reason why I can’t make some contribution to the household I spent twelve weeks in.”  Standing beside Duo as I was, I added my support to this claim by laying my hand on his waist.  I could tell he felt strongly about this, and although it was going to make things tight for us until we received our first salary checks from the Preventers, I was proud of him for offering, and even prouder of him for insisting.

“Well,” Guillaume eventually responded, “since Tristan’s not going to back me up, I suppose a graceful acceptance is probably for the best.”

I smiled.  Clearly, Guillaume had extensive experience with Duo’s stubborn streak.

Promising Pierra that we’d be back within the hour, the three of us climbed into the car.  Duo narrated the town’s highlights to me as we cruised down what appeared to be the main street and pulled into the circular drive of a junk yard and maintenance garage about ten minutes later.

“Did you tell ‘em we were coming?” Duo asked Guillaume cryptically.

The elderly man shook his head.  A sly smile in place, he admitted, “I didn’t breathe a word.”

“Hah!  Awesome.”

Before I could ask, Guillaume was braking to a stop and Duo was leaping out of the car.  I was a little surprised that he merely rounded the vehicle and waited for me to exit instead of dashing into the building to holler, “Surprise!”

Although, if I took any longer getting out of the car, he might be tempted to just leave me here.

“I worked here for something like two months,” he told me as I shut the car door behind me.  An instant later, I felt his fingers tangle with mine.  “C’mon.  The grease monkeys are over yonder.”

“Are they caged?” I muttered.

“If only,” he replied with a manic grin.

When we ducked into the garage, our shadows fell upon a guy who was bent over an engine.  He glanced up reflexively to see who was blocking his light and his scruffy, oil-smudged face stretched into a wide grin.  “JC!  Man, you’re back!”

“Yo, Bernie,” Duo replied.  “I think you’ve gained another thirty-second of an inch on that duck fuzz.”

The two other guys in the mechanic’s bay looked up and crowed greetings of their own.  “Raymond,” Duo said gesturing, “and Jonas.”  That was all he had time to say before they descended on us.

“Guys,” Duo said as the opening round of good-natured ribbing subsided into blatantly curious looks in my direction, “this is Tristan.”

“Ah,” Raymond said, stepping forward.  “So you’re the reason JC lit outta here like his ass was on fire.”

“Actually, that’d be because you forgot to bathe for, like, a week and a half,” Jonas joshed him.  He turned to me and explained, “The only thing the guy ever washes is his bling.”

“Good bling requires regular maintenance,” I responded, earning a guffaw from Bernie and a look of camaraderie from the owner of the aforementioned accessories.

Raymond gestured to Duo’s left hand.  “Nice choice, by the way.”

“Er, thanks,” he replied awkwardly, and if he’d lived a life less tragic and unforgiving, he might have blushed.

“JC?” Guillaume called, poking his head into the bay.  “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

“Naw, it’s cool.  You need a hand picking out those tires?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“No problem!”

Bernie raised a hand.  “Hold up, man.  How long are we gonna have to go before we see you around these parts again?”

Duo grinned.  “These parts,” he replied, glancing pointedly to the machinery scattered around the garage, “will be damn lucky to see the inside of a functioning _engine_ again.”

Bernie rolled his eyes.

Jonas muttered fondly, “Again with the bad puns.  Is there no end to your cheese?”

“Nope.”  Duo was unrepentant.  “We’ll see you at church tomorrow morning.”

“Count on it!”

I gestured Duo through the doorway first and Guillaume waved him over to the display of tires in the dusty showroom.  I lingered behind, trying to think of something to say to the three men who had offered my husband some measure of friendship during his sojourn here.

Raymond spoke before I could assemble a sentence that didn’t sound trite and hackneyed.

“Hey, maybe he didn’t tell you, but he turned down the prettiest, nicest girl in town while he was here.”

I blinked at him.  Bernie and Jonas nodded earnestly, confirming the news.  I wasn’t quite sure what they expected me to say in response to that, so I just nodded.

“Thanks for bringing him back for a visit,” Jonas said.  He grinned.  “It was nice meeting the _real_ JC.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Bernie concurred.

Raymond told me, “You be good to him.  Or else.”

I was a little surprised when the other two backed up Raymond’s threat with a hard look in their eyes.  Surprised, amused, and a little in awe of Duo’s ability to inspire such loyalty in his friends, no matter how briefly they’d known him, I vowed, “You have my word.”  With a wry grin, I offered my hand.  We shook and I didn’t flinch at the feel of Raymond’s grime-smeared fingers.  Nor did I shy away from Jonas’ or Bernie’s.

They chuckled ruefully when they noticed how dirty I’d gotten just from that brief contact, but I merely said, “It’s an occupational hazard I’m familiar with.”  And then, with a glance in Duo’s direction, I added, “Thanks.”  It was only one word, and it didn’t seem sufficient to the task of expressing my appreciation for how these three must have helped Duo through the months he’d been here, but it was all I could come up with.

“None needed,” Jonas said and, with a nod, I left the garage.

Duo gave me an inquisitive glance when I rejoined him.  “The hell, babe.  Don’t tell me you’ve taken up gossip as a hobby?”

“Only when it gives me leverage.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Would you be even if I said you should?”

He grinned.  “Hah!  You know me so well.”

I liked to think so, which was why I was so eager to get back to the house and get Duo started on changing Guillaume’s tires.  It wasn’t really a job for two guys, not with only one hand-operated jack to work with.  Guillaume happily volunteered to assist him so I melted into the background before retreating into the house where Pierra was waiting to make good on her promise.

She told me to roll up my shirt sleeves and wash my hands, and then we got started.

We had broiled steaks, a warm spinach salad, and paella for dinner.  The look on Duo’s face as he delicately tasted each for the first time was priceless.

“Oh… my… God…” he groaned.  “Pierra, this is ambrosia.”

“Yes, it did turn out rather well,” she agreed and then, looking directly at me, volunteered, “Tristan has a natural talent for cooking.”

Duo was in the middle or relishing another slice of steak when he paused, fork still in his mouth, and coughed.  “Whu—?” he gurgled, looking at me with wide eyes.

I smiled.  “Pierra is an excellent teacher.”

He blinked at me.  I don’t think it was my imagination that he consumed his dinner more slowly than usual, taking care to enjoy every bite.  It wasn’t until we’d washed up, brushed our teeth, and bid our host and hostess goodnight that he remarked on it.

As soon as the bedroom door shut behind us, he put a hand on my arm and turned me toward him.  The next thing I knew, his arms were around my waist and his face was buried in my shoulder.

“Tonight…  Dinner…  You didn’t have to—” he began.

I lifted my hands and rubbed his back.  “I wanted to.  I want to make you happy.”  It really was that simple.  If a well-cooked meal could put that expression of joy on his face, then I’d learn how to cook.

“You do.  I’d be happy to eat cold stew outta-the-can and stale saltine crackers every day for the rest of my life as long as I’ve got you.”

That was nice to know, but—  “You don’t have to.”

“Christ, baby.  You make me the luckiest man in the whole damn universe.”

I chuckled, rubbing my cheek against his soft hair.  “If you feel like mentioning that to the grease monkeys at church tomorrow, I wouldn’t object.”

“Huh?”

“They seem to be under the impression that I broke your heart.”

“Nosey, gossiping bunch of grungy _girls,”_ he muttered and I realized that there was yet another reason for why I’d handed over my heart to Duo Maxwell on a silver platter: he made me laugh.

I was not laughing the following morning when, moments after Guillaume’s sermon concluded, a very elegant young woman called out, “JC!”

“Hey!  Alminda!” he replied, looking genuinely pleased to see her.  Pleased and nothing more.

She, on the other hand, did not appear all that pleased to see _me._   From the veil of disappointment which muted her smile, I discerned that this was Farmville’s prettiest girl.  She was certainly striking and it left me a little dazed and breathless imagining – knowing? – that Duo had turned her down for _me._

“How’s your grandmother?”

“No incidents with white rhinos recently,” she reported.

“Maybe they’ve already gone south for the winter,” he replied and then included me in the conversation.  “Alminda, this is my husband, Tristan.”

We shook hands.  “A pleasure,” I forced myself to say.

She gave me a stiff smile and I wondered if it was because she really _had_ set her sights on my Duo or if she was picking up on my hostility.  Duo certainly did.

“Tris, babe,” he said quietly as we walked across the drive and around to the backyard of Guillaume and Pierra’s house.  “What _was_ that?”

“What was what?” I retorted, irritated that I was being called out for being territorial.  I had that right.  The ring on my finger and the ring on _his_ finger gave it to me.  So did our shared bed, the necklace that would only ever be removed from my neck over my dead body, and fact that Duo never stood as close to anyone else as he did to me.  He’d _chosen_ me.  I had a right to defend that if I saw fit.

He sat down on the porch swing and speared me with a look.  “Alminda.”

“Raymond mentioned you turned her down,” I said as I sat next to him.

He sighed.  “Those guys.  Must be nice to have selective amnesia.”

That did not sound promising at all.  I tensed.

Duo explained before I could do more than dread asking him for details.  “Raymond tried to set us up.  Busybody matchmaker mechanic.”  He met my gaze.  “I was never interested in anyone except you.  Hell,” he continued, looking away in embarrassment, “when I was here, I freakin’ _dreamed_ about you.”

“You did?”  The words came out flat, squished under the weight of disbelief.  Had I meant that much to him even then?  In the midst of his search for his true self, he’d still kept a part of me with him as a guest in his dreams?

He nodded, his shoulders slumping in defeat.  “It hurt to wake up.”

Aching, I reached for my voice to tell him of my own solitary trials but, when no sound emerged, I reached for his hand instead and he gripped my fingers hard.  We’d never talked about those weeks we’d been apart.  I’d been determined to forget they’d ever happened, but perhaps he needed to know.  I would tell him, I decided.  When our hearts were not so raw, I would lay down my meager memories for him as he was now doing for me.

But I had never asked him about his time away, which made me wonder what had prompted this confession in the first place.  “Why are you telling me this?”  I asked out of curiosity rather than out of disappointment or defeat.

His lips, always so mobile and expressive, pursed thoughtfully.  He looked off in the distance and sighed.  “We’ve shared just about every day of our lives for the past four years one way or another,” he told me in a soft tone.  “It felt… wrong that you wouldn’t know about all this.”

“Thank you,” I replied just as quietly, “for sharing it with me.”

He nodded, and when I slouched down and leaned my head against his, he leaned back.

We stayed for lunch.  Pierra taught me how to make beef stew and biscuits while Duo looked on, fascinated by my solemn attention to her instructions and advice.  When I glanced up from browning the cubes of meat, his gaze drifted up my bare forearms until we were locked in a staring contest.  “Looks good,” he told me, his eyes sparkling, and I could not wait to get him home tonight.

We left after Duo finished gorging himself.  I wasn’t sure how often I’d take the time to stock and utilize the kitchen in our house in Clifden and cooking was strictly prohibited in our housing unit at HQ, but seeing his appreciation of what I’d made soothed over some raw place inside me that I’d had for so long I couldn’t remember when it had yawned into existence.

Guillaume and Pierra both made us promise to consider spending Christmas with them.  “I haven’t shown you how to roast a ham!” she told me, giving me a preview of the winter holiday menu.  Before I could reply to that, she threw her arms around me and gave me a brisk hug, complete with a kiss on each cheek.

“We’ll be back,” I impulsively promised.

“Admit it,” Duo dared me softly as we shared a bench seat on the train.  “You liked them.  A _lot.”_

“I admit it.”  It was an easy confession to make, especially with Duo leaning against my shoulder and clasping my hand on top of his thigh.

“And you’re seriously thinking about spending Christmas with them,” he pressed.

I was, but I didn’t think we actually would.  Guillaume and Pierra’s children and their families would undoubtedly be there as well.  I had no desire whatsoever to intrude on that.

_“And,”_ he continued with charming persistence, “you feel better now that you know where I was after I left.”

He was right.  I did.  I blinked once, frowning slightly, before wondering aloud, “How did you know?”  I hadn’t even known it myself.

“You’re a hoarder,” he answered, as if that explained everything.

Hm.  Maybe it did.  “Thanks for filling in the blanks, darling,” I whispered as the train rocked along and we watched the sun set through the window.

“Anytime, babe.  Anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That really is how Duo and Trowa met. Duo and Heero went to the Alliance’s New Edwards Base and started kicking ass, then Trowa and Quatre showed up and Trowa fired at Duo and Heero to get them to take up better positions because they “were all bunched up”. Mercs, yummmm. Then, once the battle settled down, Duo went at Trowa and they started duking it out. Yeow-cha-wowa. Grrrrrowl. Boy oh boy do I love seeing Trowa fight with that retractable Army Knife deal he’s got up his Gundam’s “sleeve” during the series.
> 
> This story was prompted thanks to a comment by TB, who remarked (off-handedly) that it was too bad Trowa couldn’t see Duo in “Farmville” (which is featured in Chapter 15 of “Two out of Three”).
> 
> The last line of the story is used brilliantly in Calic0cat’s 1+2+1 story, “Anytime.”


	21. Friends, Old and New (a TooT continuation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows “Two out of Three” – Duo refuses to give up on a friendship. Trowa helps Heero understand. Heero POV. Takes place while Trowa and Duo are training to become pilots for the Preventers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the end of "Two out of Three," Trowa, Duo, and Heero all give up their old identities and start using new names. Trowa is Tristan Armstrong; Duo is Joseph "JC" Cross; Heero is "Gerald Yukitani."

“Well, lookit who I found!”

I didn’t bother to look up from the dumbbell I was currently executing my twentieth bicep curl with; I’d seen him poke his head in the open door and look around.  As such, I was now watching him zero in on me and stroll over like he owned the place, but that was Duo all over.  It was obvious that he treated public spaces like they were his.  I suppose that came from having grown up with nothing.  If he could write “Maxwell was here” in permanent marker on every damn thing he laid eyes on, he undoubtedly would, just for his own amusement.

“Are you lost?” I asked.

“Nope,” he answered, grinning at me.  He plopped himself down on the bench across from mine.  “I was lookin’ for you, _Gerald_ -buddy.”

I spared him a brief look.

He held up his hands.  “No, really!  You know how training is for the newbies.  They schedule our freakin’ potty breaks.”

I remembered.  Still, that didn’t explain why I’d seen neither hide nor hair of him last weekend when I _knew_ he and Trowa had been given time off.

Duo answered my glare, awkwardly clearing his throat: “We went out of town last weekend.”

Of course.  Because the damn honeymoon wasn’t over yet.  Honeymoon.  What a joke.  The whole thing was a joke.  A very old joke and it wasn’t funny or cute anymore.

I set the dumbbell down and stretched before picking it back up and starting thirty reps with the opposite arm.

“Why are you here?”

“Uh, did I mention I was looking for you?  I coulda sworn I—”

Through gritted teeth, I demanded, “I _meant,_ why aren’t you with Tristan?”  Wasn’t that who he ought to be with if things were so perfect and wonderful?

“Because I wanted to talk to _you.”_

I grunted.  “About what?”

He planted his hands on the bench’s vinyl padding and leaned back.  “Been a while since we hit the mat, eh?”

“Whose fault is that?”

“Mine,” he admitted with startling honesty, but the flicker of sincerity was quickly swallowed by a playful grin and waggled eyebrows.  “I’ve missed our trash-talk, buddy.”  

I looked up at him.  His smile was the same, but his hair was too short.  The laidback pose was familiar, but a silver wedding band now winked at the world from his left ring finger.

Suddenly, it was just too much.  I exploded: “And you think that by _talking,_ things are going to go back to _normal?_ _”_   I scoffed.  “Things are _never_ going to be normal again!”

“Now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” he muttered.  He leaned forward, dangling his hands between his knees, and dared, “What’s saltin’ your C-ration, man?  That I didn’t include you on the mission from the start or that I chose Tristan instead?”

I tossed the dumbbell down.  Fuck the thirty reps.  If I kept the weight in my hand, I was probably going to cave Duo’s face in when I punched him about ten seconds from now.  “You don’t get it,” I growled.

“So educate me.”

I pointed an accusing finger at him.  “You’re straight.  What the _hell_ are you doing with Tristan?”

He frowned, surprise opening his expression to me.  This was the only way I knew how to get the truth from him.  Threats, violence, humor, none of it shoved aside his damn mask long enough for me to get a reading on him.  Straight-out asking, though, that usually worked.  Probably because he didn’t expect me to care enough to bother.

But I did care.  I cared about both him and Trowa.  The first time I’d met Duo, he’d not only saved Relena, he’d saved me from making a terrible mistake.  And Trowa had saved my life, period.  He’d stayed by my side for weeks upon weeks: he was there through my convalescence, offering his nonjudgmental support as I’d tried to make reparations for the damage I’d done at New Edwards, even taking point when our enemies had closed in around us.  Semper fi.

“You’re going to kill him,” I told Duo.

“No,” he answered, his eyes darkening, his expression hardening, “but I’d kill _for_ him.”

I could probably argue that he’d kill for any one of us.  Duo was that kind of friend, which was why I was so angry with him for this betrayal.

“Just listen,” he demanded, sliding forward to the very edge of the bench and squaring off with me.  “I dunno if that shit they talk about in those cheesy love stories is true – I dunno if there’s one special person for everyone on the planet – but I _do_ know this: Tristan is it for me.”  He glared at me, “So stop actin’ like I’m the Goddamn enemy.”

I sat back, blinking.  “I haven’t been—”

“Yes, _Gerald._   You have.”

Well… fine.  Maybe I _had._   I sighed.  I did my best to just let it go.  I still didn’t understand how Duo could be serious about staying with Trowa for the rest of their lives, but he’d made it clear that it was out of my hands and none of my business.

I picked the dumbbell back up and continued with my reps.  “Why do you say my name like that?” I asked instead.

“Like what?”

“Sneering.”

“Oh.”  He paused to think about it.  “Well, I guess it’s because you’re something like thirty years too young for people to take it seriously.”

I checked and his rueful expression was truthful.  He wasn’t holding onto a grudge.  He honestly thought the name didn’t suit me.  “What do you suggest?”

“What, you mean like a nickname?”  He shook his head, his smile twisting into a bemused expression.  “Like ‘Ger’ or ‘Gerry’?”  He snorted.  “Come on.  You’d put your fist through my teeth if I used either of those.”

I probably would.

“So, Gerald,” he began, his tone fresh and previous subject discarded.  “You.  Me.  Wrestling mat.  17:30 hours tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“Awesome.  Bring your game, buddy!”

“Hm.”

Cackling, he strolled out of the gym.  It was dinnertime.  I should probably be following him.  I finished the thirty reps, stretched, picked up after myself, and headed out.

Trowa was waiting for me in the hall, leaning against the wall beside the door, hands tucked into the pockets of his trainee cargo pants.

I gave him a look and a nod.  When all I got was a glance for my trouble, I started down the hall.  If he had something to say, he’d say it.

When he straightened and fell into step with me, I took it down from a brisk march to a time-efficient stride.

“I know you don’t understand him,” Trowa said, cutting right to the heart of the issue like always.  His particular brand of insight has never slashed open wounds on the soul like Wufei’s, but it had the capability to reach deep and settle there like a grenade in your psyche and you were never sure when or if it was going to explode.

“Some days, I don’t understand him, either,” he admitted.

I glanced at him again and saw a hint of a tender smile through his shifting hair.  I didn’t have to look to know that his gaze was turned inward, toward Duo.

It was unsettling to think that two people could live like that: each of them so deep inside the other.  It went beyond being able to anticipate your comrade’s moves.  It transcended reading your enemy’s intentions in the nuances of his tone and expression.  This was something different.  Something I had no reckoning of.

“Are you happy?” I asked gruffly.

“Yes,” he answered simply.  “It’s time to stand down, Gerald, and move on to the next fight.”

The part of me that locked its jaws onto uncertainties and refused to relinquish its quarry was finally at ease.  We rode the elevator up to the residential floor.  I stepped out before he did.

“And Gerald,” he called softly.

I turned, frowning at the sight of him holding the elevator door open from the inside of the cab.  “What?”

“If you bruise my husband on the mat tomorrow, I’ll eat your spleen for lunch.  Have a nice day.”

The door closed and the elevator light retreated down to the food court level as I threw my head back and laughed.  There probably weren’t many people who thought Trowa Barton was at his funniest when he was dead serious.

Shaking my head and chuckling with residual humor, I headed for my housing unit for a quick shower and a change of clothes.  When I opened the door, the light from the hall fell across something pale in my mail slot.  I picked it up.  It was a letter.  There was nothing written on the outside of the envelope to indicate that I was the intended recipient.  It was still sealed shut.

I closed the door and turned on the light before I tore it open and pulled out a single sheet of paper.  Unfolding it, I read:

 

_Dear Gerald,_

_How are you?  I hope you don’t mind that I wrote you a letter.  Agent Schbeiker said that she’d give it to you._

_I’ve started school.  There are a lot of kids in my class.  I know they’re all my age, but they’re so young.  They don’t know anything about war or peace.  You do, though, so I’m glad I can write to you.  It’s lonely here._

_You’re probably not lonely.  You have your friends nearby.  I think you’re very lucky._

_I have to do my homework now.  We’re studying the ecosystem in science class.  It’s boring.  I know all this already._

_Please write me back._

_Sincerely,_

_Mia_

 

I sat down in the nearest chair.  I felt myself smile and it felt… strange.  I didn’t have to look in a mirror to know that my lips mirrored the shape of Trowa’s when he’d been thinking about Duo in the hall ten minutes ago.  And, since I didn’t have to look, I wasn’t forced to confirm it.

“Mia,” I said, distracting myself with the sound of it.  It was a good name for a girl whose father _and_ grandfather were far too famous right now.  I wondered what new last name she’d chosen to hide behind.

I pulled out a sheet of paper from the notepad in the desk and clicked open a pen.

 

_Dear Mia,_

_New schools can be hard, but your classmates are trying to be friendly.  I know how annoying that is._

_You’re right that I know a lot about war.  Peace is a new subject for me and that’s what I’m studying now.  Sometimes it seems like an impossible theory.  Do you think peace is natural, like an ecosystem?  Or does it have to be made by people?_

_Thank you for writing to me.  I will ask Agent Schbeiker to give this letter to you.  You can write me again if you want._

_Your friend,_

 

I hesitated over the signature.  Glancing back at the letter I’d received, I thought back to Duo’s remark about my name.  Did I want to be that old, that serious, that unapproachable… to Mia?

I sighed out a breath and smiled.  No, it was time to turn over a new leaf.

I signed the letter.

 

_Your friend,_

_Ger_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heero’s exchange with Trowa was inspired by a request from Kaeru Shisho, who asked that Duo overhear Trowa telling Heero how happy he was with Duo. Well, I don’t specifically say that Duo wasn’t eavesdropping… (^_~)


	22. A Little Healthy Competition (a TooT continuation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows “Two out of Three” – Duo and Trowa have obstacles and challenges to overcome before they are official employees of the Preventers. In a word: training. Duo POV.

Training was gonna be hell.  I mean, _seriously._   I could see it in my future already.  There’d be blisters and there was gonna be blood.  Rope burns, bruises, snot, spit, and sweat.  There were gonna be early mornings with cups of very bad coffee and reddened, itchy, watery eyes.  There were gonna be late nights of text which blurred and danced away from your every attempt to comprehend it.

But what about tears?  That’s what you’re just _dying_ to know, right?  Were there gonna be any of those?  Well, not if I had anything to say about it.

“Sonuva _bitch!”_ I hissed, grabbing for the back of my thigh as I stumbled across the white finish line.

Trowa’s arm went around my waist and I did my best to help him half-drag me over to the side of the track.  “Here, sit,” he instructed, lowering me to the turf.  “Hamstring?” he inquired but he kinda sounded like he already knew.

I gritted my teeth and nodded.  I focused on not letting the tearing, searing pain boil out in the form of a scream.  It took more than a twitchy muscle to make Duo Maxwell scream.  It took more than a twitchy muscle to make his successor, Joe “JC” Cross, scream, too.  Trowa’s hands nudged mine out of the way and I just curled my fingers into fists and tried to focus on what a nice day we were having.  Or had been having.  A lovely day for ripping muscle right off the bone.  Ho hum.

“You just _have_ to have such long damn legs,” I bit out, giving up on philosophical abstraction as he began an excruciating but necessary massage.

“And you just had to match me stride for stride,” he replied.

The hell.  Of course I did.  “We’re partners,” I choked out.

“Equality,” he murmured softly, clearly keeping in mind that our instructor was fast approaching now that the other members of our training class had all managed to cross the finish line, “does not necessarily mean fifty-fifty in everything.”

They were wise words, but I wanted to be as close to being Trowa’s equal in every way as I possibly could.  “I want it to,” I told him.

“I know,” he said, and then he was giving a report to our scowling instructor.  I summoned up a grin for the occasion and blinked the moisture out of my eyes.  The pain was actually getting better now.  If I was careful for the rest of the day, I might not even have a limp to show for it tomorrow.

But Trowa wasn’t anywhere near done with me.  After an afternoon spent taking notes in a sterile conference-room-turned-classroom, he steered me up to our housing unit, handed me a power bar and then went to run me a hot bath.  I soaked.  I dozed.  It was a bit lonely but, what the hell.  It wasn’t as if I was gonna make Tro sit on the toilet seat and talk to me while I pruned.

When I got out, I discovered why he hadn’t come in to check on me.  He’d smuggled takeout from the food court up to our room, so I had a hot meal out of paper boxes.  Then, he shoved at me until I was sprawled out over our bed as he gave my poor leg a masterful massage.

Oh, Christ was he talented.  Let me count the ways...

“Hey, now,” I objected playfully when his callused fingers hooked into the waistband of my shorts and started dragging them down.  I didn’t actually put up any resistance (in fact, I accommodatingly lifted my hips which was a pretty miraculous effort considering the fact that his masseuse skills had turned me into Duo pâté) but since when do I let a good chance to heckle the sexiest man in the universe pass me by?  “Injured man here.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

I didn’t doubt it for an instant.  I argued another point instead, “I thought it was the winner who was gonna get the, ah, spoils.”

He tossed my shorts over the side of the bed and, sliding his warm hands up the inside of my thighs, pressed my legs apart with an impressive show of strength and determination.  I shuddered.  “We both win,” he growled against the small of my back.

Whoo boy was he right about that.  I’m not sayin’ he gave me a _thorough_ or _in-depth_ demonstration or anything, but I finally clued in to why it drove him crazy when I used my tongue.  Oh my freakin’ God of everlasting bureaucratic hell.  Um, _wow._   Before he was through with me, I was wholeheartedly hoping that they hadn’t skimped on the soundproofing in the housing units.

“OK,” I declared later when Trowa was dozing and drooling on my shoulder, “either we move out as soon as we finish training and get our own place nearby—”  Which we were gonna make damn sure was decently soundproofed.  “—or we’re gonna be racking up a _lot_ of frequent flier miles going back to Clifden for our days off.”  There was nuthin’ like a nice buffer zone of countryside between you and your neighbors to really put a guy at ease, y’know?

Trowa grunted.  “We’re going to be on call for ten days at a time.”

I guess that remark was meant to nix the apartment idea.  I chuckled up at the ceiling.  “Right.  I’ll sign us up for Air Ireland club memberships.”

God knows we’d be needing ‘em.

By midway through our first week of cadet school, Trowa and I were getting long-suffering looks from our instructors.  You know the look, right?  The Christ-this-guy’s-gonna-drive-me-to-drink-paint-thinner-mixed-with-hard-liquour look.  And not for the reason you’re thinking!  Tro and I didn’t slack off.  Not at all.  In fact, in the classroom our rivalry was stronger than ever.

“…does anyone know?” our instructor posed, launching the inquiry into the classroom like he was tossing clay pigeons.  I didn’t know the answer.  Hell, I hadn’t even heard the question.  I’d been focusing on getting an earlier note jotted down legibly in the margins of my training manual.

Beside me, Trowa elegantly lifted a hand.

My response was automatic.  My hand shot up, too.  Higher and with more dramatic flair than his.

“Mr. Cross?” our instructor prompted.

Shit.

“Um, hold that thought while I check an’ see if Armstrong actually knows what he thinks he knows,” I said with a great deal of charm.  I glanced at Trowa in time to see him roll his eyes at me.

“The fourth amendment to the international armistice of After Colony 199?” he hinted.

I nudged his knee with mine in thanks as I rattled off the corresponding legalese.  Yeah, that’s my Tro.  He never holds a grudge, even when he could.  He does, however, keep track of favors.  _You owe me,_ his sidelong look said.

And I knew I was gonna be paying up later.  I grinned.  I was looking forward to it.

It was harder to look forward to lunches spent slouched over our training manuals as we blindly shoved sustenance in our mouths, but somehow those were nice times, too.  It was usually just Trowa and me.  I guess, with us being married and all, plus with us both already slated to be partners in a permanent flight crew, that sorta set us apart.

And then there were the battle simulation courses.  Also known as the BS courses.  Probably because they were ridiculously difficult to get through without taking virtual damage that knocked points off your score which gave lots of cadets ample opportunity to loudly object, “This is _bullshit!”_

Well, _I_ didn’t think it was bullshit.  I freakin’ _loved_ those Goddamn courses.  More than was healthy.

“We really need to work on this obsession of yours,” Trowa informed me as we suited up for our turn in this week’s maze from hell.

I cackled gleefully.  “Ya think?”

“Yes.  I do.”  But he was smiling, so I knew he didn’t mean it.

Seriously, it was like nothing else in the world to feel my Shinigami stalking the warzone beside Trowa’s Silencer.  The raw potential that the two of us embodied – the potential to wreak havoc, to destroy, to recreate – was seductive in and of itself, but the adversity made it all the sweeter.  This was the blessed state of grace I’d dared to hope for when I’d asked him to marry me four and a half months ago.  Little did I know how much I’d come to crave the downtime in between can-crankin’ ass-kicking awesome.

Downtime was a distant dream of a forgotten empire now.  _Now_ – at this very moment – we were chin-deep in The Course, and it had been brilliantly designed to be an utterly miserable experience.  That must be why I loved it so freakin’ much.

On this particular assignment, we set out in the dead of night.  It was cold – an early cold front had blown in that morning – and it was also raining.

I slipped through the night, sensing Trowa just two steps behind as we moved from shadow to shadow, navigating the maze at its lowest level rather than risking an aerial assault by climbing up to get a bird’s eye view.  There were search lights sweeping over the course constantly.  The risk of discovery was too great until we found decent, high-level cover that let us mimic the surrounding environment.

I pressed back into the darkest of the shadows, shoulder to shoulder with Tro.  We signed out a plan between us to approach the token of victory which fluttered from the top of the flagpole at the center of the course.

“How d’ya wanna capture it this time?”  I waggled my brows at him in the gloom.

Trowa gave me a tiny grin.  “Follow my lead.”

Rather than dashing into the center of the course, dodging a hail of paint balls and laser hits, we slunk through the shadows until we came up against one of the debris-covered towers that had blocked our initial approach.  A little appropriated rope, a crash-bang-boom from a tumbling stack of slippery-when-wet cargo boxes, and a crushed flagpole later, I was tucking the pennant into Tro’s back pocket as we booked our asses back to “base” before the “enemy” launched a counter attack.

Was it wrong of me to liken those times to playground escapades?  Maybe.  But if the twinkle in Trowa’s eyes was any indication, he had one helluva good time, too.

“We’re never gonna be able to have a normal date, are we?” I teased him when he backed me up against the wall of our apartment.  Hell, the door hadn’t even finished sliding shut before my utility belt was hitting the floor and Trowa was peeling my soaked, black turtleneck up my torso.

“It still might be possible,” he allowed, tossing my sopping-wet shirt aside.  I took advantage of the opening to start in on his buckles and buttons.

“Yeah, well, I guess we’ll see about that some other time.”  We were a bit busy with indulging in a different kind of tradition, one that I was sensing had a helluvalotta potential.

In the team exercises, no one was able to come anywhere _near_ beating Trowa and me, not on accuracy, objectives met, or shortest time.  We were lethal.  Well, inasmuch as we could be when there were sawdust-stuffed dummies and nylon flags involved.  After ten weeks of painfully dry reading, adrenaline-pumping action, and a general lack of time to do anything other than eat, sleep, and take a dump, our final scores confirmed our position at the top of our class.  We aced the tests.  We finished the Last Day mile with the same time.  Trowa scored higher than me in strength training and the high jump.  I scored higher than him on the chaotic, solo-op obstacle course, wiggling my way to the lead.  So, in the end, we came out neck and neck as far as numbers went.

I’d never been happier to _not_ win.  Maybe our competition had been at little juvenile, but I knew now, without a shadow of a doubt, what his physical limits were.  I knew how he functioned under pressure, how quickly he integrated data, and what kinds of things were more likely to stick in his long-term memory better than others.  And he knew the exact same things about me.

I had no words to express how much that meant to me.  Hell, any two strangers could fall in love and get married.  It took _magic_ to make two people _get_ each other like we did.

We were ready to be partners.  Really ready.  For real.

Now we just had the damn induction ceremony deal to endure.

I bit back a sigh as the lead instructor droned on and on about the potential of each graduate and the fragility of peace and yada yada yada.  Freakin’ hell.  Throughout the first thirty minutes of the ceremony, I’d been sitting attentively in my seat like a good little Preventer, happy to be here and eager to serve, but now my brain was starting to petrify in my skull.

Biting back a sigh, I slouched down a bit in my folding chair and reached into the pocket of my Preventer-issued khakis.  I pulled out my cell phone and keyed in a brief text message:

_//Boxers or briefs today?//_

I sent it to Trowa and waited.  He was sitting two seats down from me as there was exactly that number of cadets with names that fell alphabetically between ours, so I couldn’t hear his cell vibrate from inside his trouser pocket.  He leaned forward a bit and sent one of those hot, glittering sidelong glances my way as he flipped open his phone and texted back.

_//Behave and you’ll find out.//_

I replied.  // _You like it when I misbehave.//_

He answered.  // _No.  I love it when you misbehave.//_

I smirked.  // _Ninmu ryokai.//_

_//Cute and evil.  Some guys have it all.//_

_//I sure do.  And his name is Tristan.//_

_//He must be a lucky guy.//_

_//Definitely.//_   I sent that message, and then, as the speech-monger continued on and I waited impatiently for the part that was coming up, the part where he announced the top graduate (or, in our case, the top two), I considered Trowa’s luck a bit more and added: // _Our ranking is the same.   No fair they call your name first.//_

_//No one consulted me when they fixed the order of the alphabet.//_

I teased: // _Like it would’ve turned out any differently if they had.//_

_//Well, this way, you can appreciate the view.//_

_//I have much love for khakis.//_   Much, much love for khakis.  This was a historic fact backed up by precedent.

_//Prove it.//_

_//You betcha.//_

“Tristan Armstrong and Joseph Cross!”

Ah, finally!  We stood and approached the stage, Trowa leading the way and me appreciating the view.  At the summit, we saluted; we accepted the congratulations and certificate of appointment; we stepped to the side so the next cadet could be called.  We were officially Preventers.  I was tempted to search the crowd, but I knew I didn’t have to; Heero, Quatre, and Wufei were out there in the audience somewhere.  And as soon as all the beribboned rolls of fancy paper were handed out, Trowa and I were gonna be joining them.

It all came together in this moment: at long last, not only had we become colleagues of men we respected and trusted, but Trowa and I were now, officially, a team.  If the wedding had been the prelude, then this was the chapter in which the hero suits up before going out and kicking ass to awesome theme music.

When we were excused from the stage, I made sure Trowa and I got a bit “lost” in the crowd.  I tugged him around the corner of the bleachers of the gymnasium and came up with an excuse to mess up his neck tie just so I could try to fix it for him.

“And you call me insatiable,” he rumbled when I let him have unfettered use of his mouth.

There were lots of great comebacks for an opening like that, but what I said was: “Short attention span.”

 _“And_ impatient,” he reminded me and then rewarded me with a kiss.

My manic snorts of humor disrupted it, though.  “We’re making out under the bleachers… in _uniform!”_

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is.  I can see Wufei.”

“Does he look happy?”

“Er…”

But we needn’t have worried.  Wufei didn’t tell on us.  Hell, he was too busy pretending he hadn’t seen my hand on Trowa’s ass.

“If this is a preview of your navigation abilities aboard actual aircraft, I may have to resign myself to taking the train,” he drawled with one of those sour expressions that made me want to poke him in the belly just to see if he’d squeak.  Y’know, _before_ he killed me with his bare hands.

“You hear that?  No faith,” I complained to Trowa.  “No faith at all.”

Trowa smirked and dared to suggest to Wufei, “Maybe our course wasn’t off at all.”

“Which is far more disturbing a scenario to contemplate,” Wufei rebutted.

“Congratulations!” Quatre enthused, squirming under the stands to give us both a back-slapping hug at the same time.

“Th-thanks,” I coughed.  A motion near Wufei drew my gaze and I found Heero looking at us with this weird, exasperated grin on his face.

“I am not going to ask, so let’s get going,” Heero decreed and then turned on his heel to march out of the gym-turned-auditorium.  Wufei fell into step with him and Quatre pulled me and Trowa along with impressive tenacity.

Our friends were awesome.  They were deadly, highly-intelligent, and loyal to a fault.  They were the best.  They were also cutting into my celebratory time with Trowa.

I tried not to let the pout show.

“Disappointed?” Trowa murmured in my ear as he held the door open for me.

“Do I have reason to be?”

He shrugged.  “Look at it this way: you’ll have three beers’ worth of time to decide which wicked way you want to have with me.”

“Three beers.  You’ve got yourself a deal.”

I knew I wasn’t imagining the feel of his hand ghosting over my hip as I passed.  Oh, yeah.  He thought he was so fuckin’ stealthy.  Well, we’d just see about that.  I was the Stealth Master and I had the time it’d take to drink three beers to prove it.

I grinned and Quatre bumped my elbow, giving me a look that invited me to share the joke.  He might get it, but I didn’t particularly wanna clue him in.  I just shrugged apologetically and tweaked Trowa’s belt buckle when no one was looking.

Yeah, a little healthy competition was good for us.  It was damn good.

And so was everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was inspired in part by another comment courtesy of TB, who remarked that (given Duo's upbringing) he may have been proposing something more along the lines of a "power" partnership with Trowa when he'd proposed marriage because, for Duo, a male/male partnership would make sense in those terms. Growing up on the streets, Duo would have seen a lot of power games being played out between people and I believe his version of an ideal relationship would be one in which both people brought something of equal value to the table, so to speak. And, where Duo comes from, those offerings would be directly related to survival and self-empowerment. So, that's the deal with "A Little Healthy Competition." I'm not suggesting that Duo doesn't love Trowa (far from it), but this "power" partnership is really important to Duo. As he says, "Any two strangers could fall in love and get married" which is what he and Trowa did, but he doesn't want that to be the be-all and end-all of their marriage. For Duo, marriage is for life and life is about facing down adversity without flinching.


	23. A Moment of Truth (a TooT continuation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows “Two out of Three” – Duo has some old business to discuss with Quatre. Quatre POV. Takes place after Duo and Trowa become a two-man flight team for the Preventers. Quatre works in Operations Management.

“Quatre.  We need to talk.”

I looked up at the sound of Duo’s voice.  Thanks in part to the massive pile of digital notepads and paper file folders I had in my possession, everyone else had already cleared out of the meeting room. The mission briefing I’d presented had gone well, I’d thought, but something told me Duo wasn’t about to offer his congratulations.

I studied him as I tidied up, noting how he leaned back against the closed door in his usual, lackadaisical pose, but his expression was nearly as blank as Trowa’s had once been back at the beginning of the war, back before he’d found the other half of his soul in Duo.

“About what?” I asked, resisting the urge to reach up and rub my chest.  I knew it was my tell and I didn’t want Duo to know I could feel all the tension in him.  I had to fight against fisting my hand.  My fingers twitched.  Duo’s gaze flickered downward and his brows went up; he’d noticed.

“You already know about what,” he replied, turning the lock on the door and returning to his seat at the conference table.  He leaned his elbows on its surface, steepling his fingers.

I let out a breath at the look in his eyes.  He was serious.  Deadly serious.

“When did you find out about Trowa’s feelings for me?”

I startled; I hadn’t heard Trowa’s name spoken aloud in months, not since we’d been given the option of accepting new identities.  I hadn’t been surprised that Trowa had elected to become Tristan Armstrong.  Sharing a name with Dekim Barton would have turned anyone’s stomach.

“Quatre,” Duo insisted, staring me down.

“Do you remember when we all used to work out at the gym together?”

“Yeah,” he replied with a surprising amount of restraint.  There was no witty rejoinder, no brash remark forthcoming.  He simply answered and waited for me to continue.

It had been Duo’s idea, actually, for all of us to meet in the gym at least once a week.  The five of us had kept it up until I’d gotten buried in paperwork, and Wufei had retreated to the temple to meditate more and more frequently, and Trowa…  I swallowed.  After a few months, I suspected that it had just gotten too difficult for Trowa to hide his feelings, to resist the relentless pull of Duo’s unintentional charisma upon his heart.

I reminded him, “That first time, you worked up a schedule for all of us so no one would be left out completely.”

I distinctly recalled getting a lesson from Wufei on basic karate forms while Heero had worked with the dumbbells and Duo had held a punching bag for Trowa.  Then Trowa had spotted Wufei when he’d moved on to lifting weights and Heero and Duo had wrestled while I’d climbed onto a treadmill machine.  At some point, Heero and Wufei had squared off on the mat and I’d joined Trowa in the pool for a swim.  Duo hadn’t actually swum with us.  After changing into his swimwear, he’d floated on his back in his own lane.

“Congratulations, Tro-man,” I could remember Duo saying when the three of us had eventually climbed out of the pool.

“On?”

“Winning.”

“What?”

Duo had rolled his eyes.  “The swim race.”  He’d reached out and clapped Trowa on the shoulder.

“You were keeping track?” I’d asked, blinking.  And then I’d blushed; I’d just admitted to trying to out-stripe Trowa on the lanes.

“Sure!” Duo had exclaimed.  “And a good thing I was, too, or _you_ mighta cheated, Q-ball.”  I’d gaped in astonishment.  He’d winked and gestured toward the changing rooms.  “C’mon guys.  Dinner awaits!  But Champion Trowa gets first dibs, so no cutting in line, pal.”

“Duo!” I’d started to object, following after him, torn between amusement and indignation.  Trowa seemed hesitant to join us and, when I’d glanced back and had seen the look in his eyes, a revelation had hit me right, square in the chest.

The whole day, all of it had been Duo looking after Trowa, making sure Trowa was included in our group, making sure the five of us _were_ a group, making sure Trowa knew it.  And, by the look on his face at that moment, he had.  He’d known it.  And he’d fallen in love with the mastermind behind it.

Normally, I try to keep out of other people’s emotions.  Sometimes it’s hard.  Sometimes what they feel is forced upon me and I can barely manage to breathe around it.  I couldn’t say with any certainty that _that_ day over four years ago was when Trowa had started falling for Duo Maxwell, but it was the first time he hadn’t been able to – or hadn’t cared to – hide it from me.

I confessed this to Duo now, speaking quietly as I shared this confidence.

Duo, to his credit, simply listened.

“And now you’re upset,” I summarized with no small amount of regret.

“Winner,” he began and I braced myself for what was sure to come next.  “You told me, just before the wedding, that you’d never seen him so happy.”

I remembered.

“And you told me it was clear that I felt the same.”

I winced.  Yes, I’d tried to manipulate Duo, but only with the best of intentions!  I’d only wanted him to open his own eyes, to look inside himself, and see if he could find happiness with Trowa.  I bit back a sigh.  I knew he was waiting for an explanation and I knew it was going to sound condescending, but I had to try.  “Duo, please understand—”

“I do,” he interrupted.  “And, as it turned out, you were right.  Eventually.”

“What…?”  My chest twinged and I dared to look up.  Duo was smiling softly.

“Thank you,” he said, “for not telling him I was such a self-absorbed mess, for not telling him I didn’t feel the same, that I might never or couldn’t.”

I blinked.

He continued, “You didn’t warn him off, even though you could have.”  Pausing, he dropped his gaze and took a deep breath.  “He would have listened to you, if you had.”

I feared Duo might be right about that, but I shook my head.  “No.  No, it wasn’t my place to say.”  I stopped, took a deep breath, and tried to express exactly what I’d been thinking that half year ago.  “He deserved a chance to win your heart, and I knew he’d never take it on his own.”  Just as I’d known Duo would never _see_ it on his own.

It was true that I’d lied by omission.  I could have told Trowa that Duo wasn’t in love with him, was painfully confused and battling his own demons every step of the way during that mission.  But what I hadn’t been able to tell him was that Duo would _never_ love him, and as long as there’d been a chance that Trowa’s feelings might one day be reciprocated, I’d had no right to steer him away from the course he’d set.

“I’d hoped you and he would…”  I waved my hands in an aimless gesture.  It wasn’t necessary that I articulate the rest of that thought; it was pretty self-evident.

Duo nodded.  “And, in part, because of what you _didn’t_ say, we did.  We are.  So, thanks, man.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Duo grinned.  I smiled, relieved that I hadn’t made a misstep after all.

He stood and pushed his chair in.  As he did so, he looked up and met my gaze once more.  “Just so you know, if you try and pull something like that on us again, we’ll _both_ kick your ass.”

I barked out a laugh before I could stop myself.  “Bring it on,” I replied, gathering my files and standing.  “I’d like to see you two try.”

With a wink and a chuckle, Duo pivoted smartly on his heel.  A flick of his wrist unlocked the door and he disappeared into the hall.  I didn’t doubt that he was joined almost immediately by his husband and copilot.  I’d never seen two people so connected to each other.

I was honored to have played a part in it.  A small, but not insignificant part.  The knowledge of which I would treasure always.

Even if they ended up trying to kick my ass for it.

I grinned and, balancing my tower of notepads and files carefully, turned out the lights in the conference room as I left.  There was world peace to look after and I had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love me a strategically-brilliant yet innocent and sensitive Quatre. I endeavor to make him Machiavellian in the awesome-est way possible. To some extent, I think the other pilots know how devious and cunning Quatre is but, for the most part, they let him get on with it because they trust him. I also like that Quatre is worthy of that trust. To quote some epic line from somewhere: “He only uses his powers for good, not evil.” (^_~)


	24. First, Last, and Only Time (a TooT continuation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows “Two out of Three” – With their training completed, Duo and Trowa are given their first mission-support assignment. Trowa POV. Rated M for m/m sexual situations.

“No way, pal.  _I’m_ taking the pilot’s seat on this one.”

Heero stiffened.

Wufei glared.  “Cross—”

“He’s the better pilot when it comes to terrestrial aircraft,” I interjected before things could go pear-shaped and end up blowing out the walls of Heero’s meticulously organized office.  “I’ll take the gunner position.”

“In that case—”  Duo swooped in and snatched up the mission outline from Heero’s grasp.  “—it looks like there are a few typos on this that need correction.  I’ll just go fix those, shall I?”

I watched him storm out of the room, his stinging pride at the helm.

Heero growled, “Why does he always have to be so damn competitive?”

There was no arguing that Duo was competitive.  Just shy of viciously so.  “Our lives have changed a lot over the last eight months,” I reminded him.

Heero wasn’t particularly interested in hearing it, but that was fine.  I let him and Wufei get back to work.  Work and mission preparations would help Heero cool off so he and Duo didn’t end up finding an opportunity to each gain a set of bruised knuckles during our upcoming assignment.

Heero was wrong, though, if he thought Duo’s insistence on piloting could be completely explained by pointing to one culprit: competition.  If anything, Duo’s competitive spirit gave him a relatively harmless outlet for the pressure he was under, pressure to make the seamless transition to a team player within a system that imposed uncompromising standards and immovable expectations.  I doubted Professor G had ever demanded so much of him.  The old bastard had only ever asked Duo to sacrifice his life, never his soul.  The jodhpurs and the braid had said it all: G hadn’t cared about Duo’s quirks so long as he dedicated his life to the impossible task of eradicating one oppressive military organization after another.  Now Duo wore khakis, pressed with a single pleat, and kept his shoulder-length hair pulled back in a neat ponytail.  He filled out his flight plans in Times, New Roman, 12-point font with standard margins and one-point-two-five spacing.  As per regulations.

No, Duo’s struggle wasn’t about competition at all.  It was about finding balance after the world had been yanked out from under him.  I could imagine each and every confidence-quaking, self-image destroying, life-threatening beating that Duo had taken just within the last year alone: first at WEI, from the time I’d kissed him on the rooftop until Howard had found us huddled together on the couch; then on X18999 when we’d been dancing in quicksand; after that, the pretense of the mission had fallen away revealing the future to be an alien landscape from which he’d made a strategic retreat; perhaps the world had settled down for him in that sleepy, little countryside town, but then he’d chosen our marriage and every day in Clifden had been a kind of nested Pandora’s box as we’d inched our way toward cohabitation, unlocking one layer after another and either breathing a sigh of relief or facing the subsequent fallout; finally, we’d come back to the real world, to a three-year commitment that had begun with training and was now defined by probationary employment.

It didn’t surprise me that Duo was even now searching for his center of gravity: the world hadn’t stopped shifting unpredictably beneath him.  It didn’t help that Heero was simply unable to imagine a reason to resist such a regimented and micro-managed existence.  Additionally, neither Wufei nor Quatre seemed to be having difficulty integrating into the Preventers’ machine of justice-for-all, but they had the touchstone of stable childhoods to fall back on.

I suppose I did, too.  In a way.

“Y’know, I don’t set out to be an asshole when I wake up in the morning,” Duo muttered at me when I leaned a hip against the often-unused desk we shared with about ten other guys in the transport hangar.  He was jabbing at the keys like each and every one of them was an unblinking eye of Satan and he was determined to provoke an early Armageddon.

I told him, “You are not an asshole.”

“A shithead, then.”

“Try again.”

“A goat-licking sonuvabitch?”

“Do I look like a goat to you?”

And finally he laughed.  He threw back his head and barked out all the tension that was tearing him up inside.  “Uh, maybe if you grew a beard?” he suggested, his eyes glittering with mischief.

Since we were the only ones in the cramped and generic office, I braced a hand on the desktop so I could lean in and, lips brushing his ear, said, “Ba-aa-aa!”

Which, of course, set him off again.  The accomplishment shouldn’t have made my chest puff up.  I’d piloted a Gundam – one of the best combat mobile suits in the known universe – so I knew what power was and I knew what it felt like to have it at my fingertips; somehow, that paled in comparison to making my husband laugh out loud.  _This_ was power.  The very best kind.

He wound down and I found myself staring into his eyes, our noses nearly touching.  His grin was wide but soft.  “So, we can at least agree that I’m a sonuvabitch?”

“No.”

He threw up his hands, aggravation trying to find a foothold in his self-depreciating humor.  “How would you put it, then?” he challenged.

I smiled.  “You are… being yourself.”  When his eyes gleamed with dark and sarcastic intent, I added, “Unfortunately, Gerald is also being himself.  Add in a small, enclosed space and brace for impact.”

He snorted.  “Impact, yeah.  I was _yea_ close to impacting my fist on his damn face.”  He punched a couple more keys and the printer on the other side of the room whined to life, working itself up to grudgingly spitting out the revised copy of the mission outline. 

“I noticed.”

Duo leaned back in his chair.  It squealed with alarm but he ignored it, linking his fingers together behind his head in a display that was tempting me to wonder what else might be on the menu.

“Thanks for backing me.”  His serious tone knocked me back into the moment we were actually _in_ rather than the one I was hoping we’d be having before takeoff at 20:00 tonight.

“I was simply stating a fact,” I informed him.  He really was the better aircraft pilot.  His strength was in wings and rotor blades, mine in bipedal mobile suits.  “Everyone knows colony boys are born knowing how to handle a stick.”

His lips twitched.  “It’s called a cyclic,” he corrected me.

“See?  You know what you’re doing.”

He grinned and sat forward, leaning up until we were almost kissing.  “An’ I know what we’re _gonna_ be doing just as soon as preflight is taken care of.”

With a wink, he brushed past me.  I kept my hand in my pocket and let him go.  Duo Maxwell might like to tease, but he always followed through.

Three hours later, with our chosen helicopter locked and loaded like the weapon it was, he did just that.

“Duo!” I hissed through gritted teeth.  How did he know?  How did he _know_ how much I liked it in the shower?  I’d certainly never told him, but somehow he’d figured it out.

With the white noise hissing around us like static, I lost myself in the moment, for there was only this moment with no external world, no universe beyond.  There was nothing except for Duo’s shoulders beneath my hands, my knee hooked over his hip, his body rocking unstoppably against mine, my back pressed against the shower liner, and the sound of his voice stumbling through my name again and again and again.

“You remember,” he whispered urgently into my ear, “the first kiss I gave you?”

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.  “Yes.  Outside my door.”

“You invited me in,” he reminded me as his mouth moved over my arched neck.

“I wanted—” I began to confess, but then his hand, callused now after two months of training and two additional months of piloting, smoothed over my flank, leaving sizzling skin in its wake as it slid under my ass and—

 _“Fuck!”_ I hissed when his soapy fingertips touched me _there._

“Yeah,” he agreed, his lips moving against my exposed throat, his teeth just a thin barrier of tender skin away from the lifeblood beneath, “I wanted it, too.”  He sucked my earlobe into his mouth and I groaned, my fingers digging into his muscles.

His hips were rubbing breath-stealingly urgent circles against mine and his fingers were mimicking the pattern.  I wasn’t going to last much longer.

“You wanted—to wait—to—” I attempted to remind him.  I had no idea why I was still trying to uphold my end of the conversation.  Lengthy vocalization was not one of my strong points, generally speaking (and even less so during lovemaking).

“And you were worth it,” he growled, changing the rhythm again, surging against me roughly, perfectly. _Hmmm, yes._   “Worth it,” he repeated tenaciously.  “Everything.  You’re worth it all, baby.”

They were more than words – I could feel it – and Duo gave that to me without reservation, just as he gave himself.  I fell into him and fractured.  My heart burst and my sight darkened as I came, as he came, and the white noise continued uninterrupted around us, a moment out of time.

The leg under me shook, trembled, and the one hitched up over his hip gave out.  As I felt it begin to slide downward, his hand was suddenly there, lowering my foot to the floor carefully lest I trigger a muscle cramp.  Meanwhile, I breathed.  Just breathed.  Duo’s weight against my pelvis and chest held me upright.  This weakness should have left me shaking with terror-induced anger instead of sated with pleasantly buzzing satisfaction.  The soldier in me would have hated it if my faith in Duo hadn’t been unbreakable.   I knew that I could lean on him and that he’d have my back.  No exceptions and no excuses.

Today was no different.  He kissed me as he rinsed us both off.  He toweled us dry.  He pulled me out of the bathroom and then tucked himself up next to me in bed.

I spared a thought to ask for the time, but Duo would already know, and he would keep watch.  He wouldn’t let us be late.

I slept.

He woke me with a caressing hand that ventured up and down my back until I stirred.  _It’s time to go,_ he told me in perfect silence when his arm banded tightly around me and his lips pressed against my temple.  _I know,_ I didn’t say as I let out a long breath.

I leaned up for a kiss, the kind that nearly tasted like sun-warmed, salty caramels and made Duo shiver.  And then we rolled apart to get dressed.

We still had two hours before liftoff.  We spent it going over every inch of the helo.  It was this uncompromising attention to detail that had earned us – a pair of pilots fresh out of training – the privilege of transporting the most delicate and volatile cargo: prisoners, evidence in criminal cases, and documents that were so sensitive that transferring them electronically in digitally encrypted files was too great a risk.

And tonight we’d be implementing a flight plan which was inherently more dangerous: a drop off and retrieval in full stealth mode.  A future investigation into a suspected illegal weapons manufacturer would hinge on our abilities.  Heero and Wufei’s team was counting on me and Duo to get them into optimal position for launching their reconnaissance of the compound.  They were also relying on us to undetectably swoop in and extract them.

This particular brand of responsibility was a weight I was used to bearing.  Only now, as it settled upon my shoulders again, did I realize it had been absent ever since Duo had slid the silver wedding band I now wore onto my finger.

I glanced his way, wondering if he felt it, too, but he looked totally confident.  A bit jazzed up, even.  I watched him as his hands moved over the helo’s controls, checking every switch, bringing up every system stat.  Here, on the cusp of a mission, he was undeniably at home.

Another piece of the Duo Maxwell puzzle slid into place.  I’d seen this before; I just hadn’t realized it was an integral part of who he was.

I broke our usual preflight silence to observe, “You have a lot of experience with this.”  His brows twitched questioningly.  “Taking point,” I elaborated.

He paused and a wry grin attempted to sidle its way onto his face.  “Yeah.  I guess I do.”  He looked up and into my eyes.  “Back in the day.”

It said a lot about the kind of lives he and I had lived if we could use the phrase “back in the day” at our age and load it with meaning.

He offered, “I’ll tell ya’bout it later if you want.”

Of course I did.  There was nothing about him that I wasn’t keenly interested in.  “I’ll remind you.”

“Thank you, dearest,” he snarked playfully.

Well, I suppose that had come out somewhat, ah, nagging.  “Did you remember to take out the trash?” I dared to tease.

He smacked me on the arm with his digital clipboard in retaliation.

We finished up twenty minutes before scheduled liftoff, as usual.  Normally, we’d sit and talk about mundane topics while we kept a sharp eye out for anything unexpected which might delay us.  Once, the girlfriend of one of the guys assigned to Flight Maintenance had dropped by.  I’d had my utility knife in my hand before the hangar door had slammed shut behind her.  Duo had stepped in front of me, giving me a moment to assess the situation while he’d charmingly interrogated her on who she was and why she was here.

I’d kept watch, wary that she was attempting to supply some kind of distraction for unknown cohorts, but all she’d wanted was to return her boyfriend’s cell phone to him.  Apparently, he’d forgotten it at her place.  Duo had pointed her in the direction of the hangar lounge and that’s all that had come of the incident.

“Stand down, baby,” he’d purred softly in that tone which never fails to turn me into warm molasses.  He’d massaged my knife arm, and I’d slid the blade back into its sheath, unused.

That had not been the first time I’d drawn a knife in response to being confronted with the unexpected and I didn’t expect it to be the last.  Tonight, however, there were no surprises.  We took turns studying the terrain maps and the layout of the manufacturing compound.

“It’s kinda too bad we’re not going inside on this one,” Duo mused with perverse cheer.

I suggested, “If you want an excuse to crawl through ductwork and access tunnels, there’s that persistent clog somewhere down our water line.  You could take care of that.”

He chuckled.  “Don’t tempt me.”

I knew he missed stealth-work – down-and-dirty, dark-and-cramped, dust-and-rats stealth-work – but I was never going to understand _why._

According to the mission outline, that was going to be Heero’s role tonight.  Despite the fact that his partner _and_ a team were going in, the assignment was a fairly solitary one.  The four agents on the roster aside from him and Wufei would be little more than lookouts as Heero made his way to the building’s computer mainframe to plant a data transmitter and create hard copies of as many incriminating files as he could access in the twelve-minute window he purportedly had between security checks.

I did not envy him the assignment.  Duo, however, had a nostalgic air about him that didn’t dissipate until our passengers arrived.

The other four agents on Heero and Wufei’s team were strangers to me, but they looked young.  It was entirely possible that they were a decade older than us and had been with the Preventers longer, but they’d never had the weight of an entire colony cluster’s wellbeing thrust upon their shoulders.  That much was obvious.

Duo and I greeted them with the same indifferent nod we gave our friends.  A prolonged greeting with the lead agents might disrupt the team’s overall focus, not to mention their group dynamic if they thought for even an instant that the flight crew had “favorites”.  Perhaps it seems cold, but impartiality is sometimes best.

“Liftoff in five minutes,” I said into the crewman headset as Duo nudged the rotors out of their lazy idle and into preflight warm up.  “Buckle up and lock down.”

Crewmen helmets were cinched in place and harnesses sorted out.  Once everyone got done with last minute gear and seat adjustments, I continued, “Drop off is at one-point-two clicks south-southwest of the target’s cargo and delivery bay.  The gunner—” I lifted a hand to identify myself as such (as per the completely unnecessary and oftentimes moronically redundant Preventer flight regulations).  “—will operate the loading door.  Seventy-seven minutes until target acquisition and counting.”

“Copy that,” Heero confirmed after each team member had given him the standard thumbs up in acknowledgement.

And we took off.  Precisely on schedule.  Duo might not have deigned to roll out of bed on time for a day of WEI busywork but, as Pilot Joseph Cross, punctuality was a matter of pride.  Duo and I stayed in touch with our contact at air traffic control until we were well out of the city limits.  Over a stretch of uninhabited corporate-controlled farmland, his fingers danced over the controls and, suddenly, everything went silent.

“Do not remove your headsets until you are cleared to do so,” I reminded our guests in the cargo hold.  Just because the blades no longer chopped through the air so coarsely, that didn’t mean that it was safe to expose the human ear to the intense fluctuations in air pressure.  There was always a price to be paid for bigger-better-more.  In the case of stealth helicopters, the silence could become permanent for the operators and passengers.

Dangers to the inner ear aside, the flight was like a dream.  Duo didn’t simply pilot the helo, he flew _with_ it.  To me, the machine was simply a tool for getting from point A to point B.  For Duo, I suspected the experience was almost sacred.

I grinned.  That was a colony-born boy for you.  And remembering how he’d piloted _me_ only a few hours earlier was one hell of a turn-on.

“Approaching target,” Duo announced just as the clock on the control panel ticked off the seventy-first minute.  We were right on schedule.

“Prepare for drop,” I ordered Heero and the others.  I scanned the area for signs of activity.  We were in an old industrial district which had been abandoned when the local train depot had closed down years ago.  Most of the buildings were dilapidated, skeletal, and dark.  In the center of the once-thriving manufacturing center was a cluster of seemingly impregnable concrete structures.  I didn’t wonder if, seeing that, Duo would envy Heero his task any less; my husband was probably itching to give the place a go himself.  The greater the challenge, the more he simply _had_ to conquer it.

I checked my sidearm and unbuckled my harness.  I couldn’t hear Heero, Wufei, and their team doing likewise, but I could see them going through the motions out of the corner of my eye.

Careful not to touch Duo and distract him from the approach, I climbed between our seats and took up position beside the side loading door.  All six agents lined up, clipping their jump cords to the line strung across the inside of the helo’s roof.  I threaded one arm through the anchored safety strap and reached across to grip the door handle with the other.

“Countdown to deployment,” I heard Duo say.

“Standing by,” I answered.

“Three… two… one… _mark!”_

I pulled the door open.  Wufei stepped forward and scanned the darkness with the infrared goggles built into his crewmen’s helmet, his weapon at the ready.  “Clear,” he announced and motioned the rest of the team forward for the jump.

One by one, their jump cords stretched, turning a bone-jarring leap into a gentle descent.  Heero was the last one out and when he was gone, I braced myself beside the door, gun trained on the darkness, waiting until each agent was safely past the helo’s stealth zone.  I listened as they reported in and then unsealed their protective earphones.  Their helmets stayed on.

I slid the door shut.  “All clear,” I told Duo and he lifted us away.

Rendezvous was in two hours, so he landed in a distant, forest-encircled meadow to conserve fuel.  We maintained stealth mode even with our speech; simply monitoring the team as they breached the perimeter of the compound.  The GPS tracking chips in their helmets gave us their position to within a half meter of accuracy.

We were out of range of the air traffic control tower so they did not have any updates relevant to our position, but we kept the line open.  Just in case.  Via our headphones, we heard the occasional whispered report as the team progressed through their objectives.

An hour came and went.  We watched as five blinking dots on the tracking screen took up defensive positions while a sixth ventured onward in a winding path.  Duo grinned as he stared at it, stealthing vicariously.

After eleven minutes and twenty-some-odd seconds in one position, Heero’s signal began a retreat.  He rejoined the others and they began to pull back the way they’d come.  Reassuring silence continued to undulate sinuously over the satellite connection.

And then…

Nothing.

Heero, Wufei, and the others were utterly still, totally silent.  Hunkered down just inside the cargo bay doors.  We waited another ten minutes for the order to standby for pick up.  Nothing came.

I looked up as Duo reached for the controls.  I didn’t ask what he was doing.  I knew he wasn’t going in for the retrieval.  There was no way the team would be in position by the time we flew over that meadow.  The only explanation was reconn.

“Proceeding to assess the situation,” I said into the headset.

There was no answer on the other end.  Heero and the others were being very, very quiet.  That was good because it meant that they hadn’t been discovered yet.  But it was also bad because they could not tell us what they needed from us in order to complete the assignment safely.

If I’d thought Duo flew like a dream before, it was nothing compared to how he handled the helo now.  He drifted us past the southern face of the compound like a dandelion seed carried by a summer breeze, staying low and just beyond the reach of the motion-sensitive security lights.

I used our pair of night vision binoculars to take stock of the scene.  A line of semis had been pulled up to the cargo doors.  Each was backed into a bay like a key in a lock.  The only exit was a single service door and it was manned by an armed security guard.

It was pretty obvious what was in the process of happening.  The cartons of stock in the bay were being loaded up for transport and delivery.  And with each passing minute, the team trapped inside was losing cover.  I glanced down at the tracker screen and noted their positions.  They’d moved back, further away from the door they should have been heading for.  They were running out of places to hide.

They needed a diversion.

I scanned the area as Duo completed a silent lap around the installation, and I made a choice.

I didn’t dare use the comm. link any more than necessary; the team’s position was too precarious for me to distract them.  I signed to Duo.

_I’m going down._

His hands remained steady on the cyclic even as his eyes widened.  I signed once more.  _Circle around again.  Drop on west side._

I saw his jaw clench in the dim light from the illuminated gauges, but he didn’t hesitate.  He started the second pass.  I checked my gun again and shrugged out of my harness.  This time, when I squeezed between our seats, I touched his shoulder.

The cargo hold was dark, but my night vision goggles helped me locate what I needed with minimum fuss.  Duo and I hadn’t stocked flash grenades with any particular purpose in mind, but I was glad we had.

“In five…” Duo said.

I slung the pack of explosives over my shoulder.

“Four…”

I clipped a jump cable to my belt.

“Three…”

I reached for the loading door and braced myself.

“Two…”

The door slid open soundlessly.

“One…”

Darkness rushed past.

“Mark.”

I jumped.  The line slowed my fall until my feet made contact.  I disconnected the clip with a tug on the release cord and rolled into the shadows.  Coming to a stop, I unsealed my earphones and listened.  I didn’t hear a thing as Duo took off.  I only felt a brief rush of wind.

Although I didn’t know how much time Heero and the others had before they were discovered, I didn’t rush.  I moved methodically, glad that I’d studied the compound layout and security features so carefully.  That knowledge led me along a comfortingly dark path.  I stayed out of the detection zone of the motion sensors as I came at the south wall in an easy lope.  Using the bulk of the semis to work the blind spots to my advantage, I selected one vehicle and began my approach.

The truck cab was empty and the guard by the service door hadn’t spotted me when I’d stayed low – almost crawling – across the open space.  He wouldn’t be able to see me now, not with semis on either side of me.  The truck door had an electronic key pad to which I did not know the combination.  Nor did I have time to hotwire it.  I moved further back, to the rear of the cab, and fitted myself between it and the trailer.

My fingers sought out the thin metal sheeting which provided the rear wall for the cab.  And then, with my knife in hand, I started in on opening it up like a can of sardines.

The black coating on the knife made it a nearly soundless process.  I made three long cuts in the shape of an “H” and then, bracing my shoulders back against the trailer, I pushed them inward with my feet.  When the metal sheeting had bent just enough, I tossed the pack of flash grenades inside and wiggled my way in after them.

Hotwiring the truck from the inside was simple.  Attracting attention as the engine rumbled to life and the wheels started turning was even easier.  I pulled out of the bay without clearance or care for what was going on in the trailer.  Slouching low in the driver’s seat, I ripped through the gears, gaining speed, and aimed the truck toward the west side of the building.

Impact in ten seconds.  “Team, prepare to move out,” I said into the headset and began the countdown.

It was all down to timing now.  I braced myself.

Search lights were sweeping toward me.  I held my course.

And then—

The sound of the truck smashing into the concrete wall roared across the night like thunder.  Or perhaps that was the sound of my gun discharging, blowing out the passenger-side window.  Flipping the safety back on, I tucked the gun in my waistband, reached for the window frame and boosted myself out of the cab.  I pulled myself onto the roof of the vehicle, leapt up to the top of a single-story addition to the concrete monolith, and sought out a shadow.

I could hear footsteps closing in on the ground.  The search lights illuminated the bashed and still growling-chugging-hissing truck with its cargo guts trailing behind it over the concrete drive.  I drew my weapon, sighted through the broken window, and fired.

I covered my eyes to protect them from the chain of blindingly bright flashes I’d just set off.  I didn’t wait around to see if anyone was going to notice me.  I used what hand and footholds I could find to get myself onto the roof of the main structure.

“Pick up at north wall,” I panted at Duo, sprinting for the corresponding side of the building.

“Moving in.”

I reached the edge of the roof just as the black helicopter rose like the Grim Reaper before me.  And then, with a maneuver that I’d seen once in a big-budget action film (and now recalled that I’d scoffed at for being pure sensationalism and wholly impossible), Duo swung the helo about and all I had to do was dive for the still-open loading door.

I took the step that would launch me to safety.

That’s when the sound of gunfire finally rang out.

It was close.

CRACK!  _zzzmmmm…_

Very close, which meant Heero and the others were probably in the clear.  I jumped.

CRACK!  CRACK!

_Ping!  Ping!_

Shit.  The helicopter had taken fire.  Une was going to kill us.

CRACK!

_BANG!_

I tumbled into the cargo hold.  “Clear!” I reported and Duo got us out of there so fast my head was spinning.  I pulled myself up and pushed the loading door shut – we’d move faster with it closed – and stood by, waiting for Duo to order the team’s retrieval, then I reached up to seal my earphones back in place to counteract the rapid changes in air pressure.

The world continued to tumble and blur and I knew it wasn’t because of Duo’s piloting, which meant it had to be _me_ who was unsteady.  Had I been hit?  I didn’t feel any pain, didn’t see, smell, or feel any blood, but that was no indication.  Adrenaline is nature’s most perfect mask and only time could crack it.

Well, I wasn’t dead yet.  I focused on that and my vision began to settle.

Duo disengaged the stealth mode in order to leave a false and obvious trail leading away from the compound.  Once we were just over a forested ridge, he silenced the craft again and circled back to the field.  Wufei was counting down their progress in an attempt to make the extraction as smoothly timed as possible.  I felt the helo hover in place before starting to lose altitude.  Duo commanded, “Retrieval on my mark – coming in fast!”

I didn’t doubt it.

“Mark!”

I threw the door open, reached for the nearest flak jacket, and hauled the body attached to it into the cargo hold, then the two of us each grabbed a second, and then I left those three to manage the remaining half of the team.  I had a gunner seat to take.

I scanned the area with the night vision binoculars, but I didn’t see any sign of antiaircraft missiles.  The compound security forces had been mustered and were starting to scour the surrounding area in Jeeps, but they wouldn’t find anything in those old, moldering buildings.

They might, however, find the transmitter that Heero had gone to such care to install.  Well, there was always the hope that he’d gotten out with the hard copy motherload in his pocket.  We wouldn’t know until debriefing, at any rate, and it was too late to do anything about it now if he hadn’t.

I put it out of my mind.

Eighty-two minutes later (the wind had picked up and added air resistance to our return flight), we touched down on the Preventer tarmac.  The rotor blades, no longer in stealth mode, slowed.  The crewmen helmets came off.  No one offered any congratulations.

None were deserved.  We’d fucked up.

Duo and I slumped our way out of the helicopter.  The sun was just beginning to rise and, in the glow, I counted two bullet hits on the side of the helo.  They hadn’t breached the skin, so it looked like an easy spackle job for the repair crew.  In short, it could have been worse.

“Holy _fuck!”_ Duo hissed and I was completely confused when he reached for the helmet tucked under my arm and just stared at it.

“What—?”

He dropped it to the tarmac and suddenly he was tearing at his flight gloves, tossing them carelessly aside and his fingers were in my hair.  “Oh thank God,” he sobbed, his voice dry and broken.  He examined my scalp like he was expecting to find and read braille there amongst the hair follicles.

I glanced down at my helmet as it finished its bounce-and-roll across the concrete.  It bumped against the side of my foot and I saw what had set Duo off.  There was what appeared to be a hole in the back of the otherwise unbroken dome.  But no, it wasn’t a hole.  Something had gouged a hole and lodged itself in there.  Suddenly, I realized why I’d been so disoriented after I’d made that leap into the helo’s cargo hold.

I’d been shot.

“Thank you, God.  Thank you thank you thank you—”

Duo’s voice, Duo’s claw-like fingers pulling at my hair, Duo’s body fitting itself against mine right here in the middle of the launch pad woke me from my shock.  I reached for his wrists.

“I’m fine,” I told him.

I reached for his waist and pulled him closer.

“I’m fine.”

He pressed his face against my neck.  He was panting so hard I thought he was going to pass out.

“I’m fine.”

But if that bullet had struck six inches lower or I’d leapt six inches higher, I’d be paralyzed from the neck down… or dead.  I shuddered.  My hands fisted in his flight suit jacket.

Heero hesitated to follow Wufei and the team inside.  When he glanced our way, I met his gaze without flinching.

“I have to report this,” he informed us, his gaze dropping to the helmet at our feet.

I nodded.  “Do whatever you have to do.”  I could not care less.  I was standing here, feeling Duo in my arms.  That was all that mattered.

The director didn’t agree with me when we handed in our reports twenty minutes later.

“Gentlemen, what positions do you hold here with the Preventers?”

“We’re pilots, ma’am,” Duo replied in a subdued tone.

“Yes, that is correct.  Do pilots improvise missions, Mister Cross?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Do they concoct and implement rescue attempts?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Do they _blow up_ the property of potential suspects?”

“No, ma’am.”

“How very interesting that you managed to do all three in the span of fifteen minutes.”

She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the leather-trimmed ink blotter.

“First, last, and only time, gentlemen, or there will be no more live-op assignments for either of you.  Ever again.”

I supposed we deserved that.  Looking back on it, it was easy to see now that we should have trusted Heero and Wufei to guide their team into the building’s ductwork to await a better opportunity for extraction.  They may have had to spend all day in there, but they could have maintained the integrity of the op.  We’d had no proof that lethal force would be used on them even if they were discovered.  Although, now, I felt we could argue convincingly in favor of that theory.

I thought of my crewmen’s helmet.  It had saved my life and now it was evidence against us, evidence that Duo and I had backslid into that all-or-nothing mindset that had gotten us both through the war.  We weren’t at war anymore.

For the first time, I wasn’t really sure what we _were_ doing, what we were _supposed_ to do, who we were supposed to be, or how we were supposed to fight.

“Understood, ma’am,” Duo responded in the same, peculiarly demure tone of voice.

“Do not report for duty today or tomorrow.  If Internal Investigations has questions for you, answer them.”

Duo nodded and stood.  I blinked at nothing at all for a moment and then I felt his hand under my arm and he was pulling me to my feet.

I’d almost abandoned Duo.  I’d almost _never_ had him in my arms again.  The kiss we’d shared just eight hours and three minutes ago had almost been our last.

All I could think of was everything that had almost been destroyed because of a mistake in judgment.

When I took note of our surroundings again, we were inside our housing unit and Duo’s hands were working the fastenings on my clothes open with delicate precision.  I sighed out a breath and let him maneuver me out of my gear and sit me down on the edge of the bed.  He handed me my sleep pants and then dumped his own clothes on the floor.  We lay on the bed together, wrapped around each other in silence, but neither of us could sleep.  I couldn’t stop my arms from winding tighter and tighter around him – so tight I knew I was bending his ribs – and then forcing them to loosen… only to gather him chokingly close yet again.

He didn’t complain.  He pressed kisses to my neck, my shoulders.  “Trowa,” he whispered over and over, his hands sliding into my hair at the back of my head again, searching for the bullet hole, the fractured bone, the clotted blood that wasn’t there.  “Please, Trowa…”

I blinked.  My eyes felt strangely hot, but they weren’t itchy from lack of sleep.  They felt… swimmy.  Was I crying?

“Please?” I echoed dumbly.  I couldn’t recall ever hearing Duo say that word to me with his voice pitched so… so…  I had no words for it.

“I…   _Please.”_   And then his mouth covered mine.

Every breath I’d taken since I’d jumped off of that roof and into the helo solidified in my belly and burned away the numbness.  The wobbly, floating disorientation that had started clinging to me from the moment I’d seen the bullet smashed into the back of my helmet simply evaporated into steam.  Suddenly, I was _on fire._

I groaned, fairly screamed into his mouth as I kissed him roughly, deeply.  He tugged at my arms and I lunged on top of him, his legs wrapping around my hips.  He rocked against me as I devoured him.  Every writhe, every whimper was that _please_ all over again.

He pushed my flannel pants down my hips.  I reached for his shorts.  I didn’t know where they ended up, but they were gone and there was nothing but skin between his soul and mine.

“I love you,” I gasped.  I loved him more than anything.  More than _anything._

“Have me,” he rasped, opening his eyes and looking up at me.

Our gazes connected and, just as suddenly as the frenzy had swooped in and caught us both in its maw it subsided, calmed.  I relaxed against him, smiling.  I brushed my fingertips over his face, reading him by touch.  “I do have you,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, but… now I wanna give you more,” he whispered.  He drew his foot up the back of my leg.  “Trowa, _please.”_

Oh, God.

I couldn’t refuse him, not when he was asking, which was something he’d never made _me_ do.  Always offering, giving.  I could not point to anything in my life that would have earned me the right to have a lover like him.  And he was giving me everything.

I didn’t ask if he was sure, I could see that he was.  When I leaned down and kissed him, he reached for me almost frantically, but I kept it gentle and soft even though my skin was starting to sizzle again from the inside out.  I couldn’t keep my hands still; there was simply too much of him laid bare for me to know.  And I _had_ to know him.  All of him.

With a kiss to his jaw, I sat back and just touched him, felt him.  He was sprawled out before me.  I reached for the necklace and pendant at my throat.  _Trust._   This was what Duo’s total and complete trust looked like: lips that invited a kiss, limpid eyes that pleaded for infinity, dexterous fingers which alternately petted and clutched at my thighs.

I reached forward and eased the band off of his now-crooked ponytail, spilling his hair across the pillow.  There.  My Duo.

I didn’t offer to stop if he wanted me to.  If there was any indication that he was uncomfortable at all – at any point in time – I’d stop.  I’d find a way.  I was the master of my body, and Duo, with his soft tone pitched just so which melted the soldier back into my psyche, was the master of me.

He braced himself up on an elbow, leaned over, and opened the bedside table drawer.  A brand new bottle of lubricant and a condom bounced onto the bed beside my knee.

I smiled and teased, “Is that an invitation?”

“You’ve had your invitation,” he retorted.  “It’s time to RSVP.”

I laughed.  I loved him too much sometimes.

“Comfortable?” I checked, combing my fingers through his hair, brushing my thumb against his cheek, his lips.

He nodded.  I picked up the bottle of lubricant.  I kissed him as I massaged him, nibbling at his gasps and soft mewls, marveling at the heat of him _there_.  His hands clutched my shoulders, his hips nudged against me over and over again.  I was in no rush.

“Mmm, darling…”

He was so quiet as I sampled his skin, moving down his chest, over his belly, and then lower.  So eerily quiet, but not contained.  Not tense.  The restless motions of his feet against the bed covers and his panting breaths somehow made it sacred.

Sacred.  Yes.  When I slid into him, that was the first word that came to me.

“Duo,” I mouthed, groaning.  I was never going to forget the feel of him – us – like this.  I was never going to forget how he looked now with his eyes drifting shut and hands reaching for me.  I was never going to forget his sighing breath, the flutter of his lashes, the way my name tumbled past his lips.

He groaned long and deep, pushing against me and tilting his hips _just so_.

“Nuh!” I informed him, my fingers curling, digging into the bed sheets.  His hands moved over my shoulders, down my chest and belly where they paused and I watched as he pressed one palm to my skin and ventured further, his fingers brushing against me – us – where we were joined, communicating with that one touch a kind of silent wonder.

Collecting his hand, I moved it to my hip as I lowered myself over him until our chests were brushing.  I met his gaze as I waited, fully inside him – waited as patiently as I could despite the fact that his heat was destroying me – for him to give the command to proceed.  He took a deep breath.  He let it out.  His arms wrapped around my shoulders.

“Feels safe,” he told me, and then he rocked against me.

His observation tugged my lips into a smile even as the motion of his body forced a moan up my throat.  How odd that he could be so right and yet so wrong at the same time.  I suppose it was up to me to show him that.

I started slow, but he was too irresistible for me keep it so simple for long.  Nuzzling his neck as he whined pleadingly with every thrust was heaven, but there was more that I wanted to give to him.  I sat back and grasped his hips, initiating a searching rhythm meant to locate one thing.

He gave a strangled shout when I found it.  Found it, and focused on it.  There.  Just _there._   He could feel it.  I could feel him feeling it.  I could see it, too, in the way his teeth clenched and his fingers dug into my forearms and his hips rolled endlessly up and up and up to meet mine.  Within a few moments, he was gasping for breath.  My heart was pounding, thundering so loudly I felt bruised on the inside all the way up to my eardrums.

“Aah!  My—my Duo—!”

“Tr-trowa…  Baby!  Please, baby.  _Please.”_

I didn’t want it to end, but I needed the release.  _He_ needed the release.  Frantic, abbreviated moans and desperately clutching hands demanded it.  I reached for the bottle one more time, drizzled cool liquid over my fingers, and then wrapped my hand around his hard length.

“Nnnuh!” he called, a sampling of imminent victory coloring his voice.

Where opening his body to me had been a confession, this was absolution.

I picked up his clutching hand and guided it to my face so I could smell him, lick the inside of his wrist, feel his calluses against my ear and cheek.  The scent and taste and feel of him jerked something deep inside me, like a hook caught around the base of my spine, and suddenly I was surging into him again and again, harder and harder.  His thigh muscles tightened, his back arched.

Panting-keening-teeth-gritting, I watched him shatter, watched as he shattered me, shattered both of us into nothing but broken pieces of souls and, after a few mindless breaths, I felt the jagged edges melt and meld back into one again, seamless and indestructible.

I braced myself above him on trembling arms and petted his forehead, his chest, his hip and thigh.  “All right?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered, a happy smile transforming his entire being, lighting him from within.  “You are.”

That hadn’t been what I’d meant and I knew he knew it.  I leaned in for a kiss.  This one tasted of heated apricots with a mingling of cloves.

I reached into the drawer for a hand towel and took up his usual task of cleaning up.  Skin dry and bodies separated, I collapsed beside him, rolling him into my arms.  Sleep stopped avoiding us and I felt him slip into unconsciousness moments before I joined him.

A strange feeling of being bare and unburdened woke me.  I opened my eyes, shifting and seeking warmth and weight amongst the covers, but I was alone.  The sun was setting; its rose-tinted light was seeping into the room through the closed window blinds.  Duo wasn’t in sight.

I hurriedly located my sleep pants on the floor, shook them out of their tangled ball, and pulled them on.  My heart pounded.  My throat felt dry and sticky.  Where the hell was Duo and why had he left?

I wasn’t sure I was going to like the answer to the second part of that question.

The bathroom door was shut and, in the darkening room, I noticed a strip of light beneath the bottom edge.  I knocked softly.

“Yo.  You’re up!” he called out.

He sounded fine.  Normal.  That disturbed me.  If what I thought I knew about Duo was true, then he shouldn’t be fine and normal after asking me to make love to him.

But the only way to confront the fallout was face-to-face.  I pushed open the door.

Duo was sitting on the long bathroom counter in his shorts from this morning with his feet propped up on the closed lid of the toilet seat.  In his lap was a memo pad.  His fingers pinched a pen between them.  Crumpled sheets were scattered around him like the windfall of ideas that they undoubtedly were.

“What’s all this?  Another shopping list?” I teased, moving to the toilet and, scooping up his feet, I sat down.  I tucked his toes up against my hips and balanced his heels on my thighs.  Gripping his calves, I leaned forward and looked up at him over his bare knees.

He grinned at me.  “A shopping list?  I guess you could say that.”

I waited, massaging the muscles beneath my hands.

“The thing is,” he began after a few minutes, “I can’t let last night’s mission be the first, last, and only time, no matter what Une says.”

“Hm?” I prompted, lifting a brow in inquiry.

“What if something goes wrong again?  That’s, like, _our team._   I can’t just sit back, _as per regulations,_ and do nothing!”

I knew he couldn’t.  He wasn’t capable of that.  “But we can’t be caught, either.”

“And there’s the rub,” he agreed, giving me a look as he passed the memo pad to me.  I took it and flipped through the pages, reading in his scribbles and diagrams a variety of contingency plans.  They weren’t going to be nearly as dramatic as what we’d pulled off last night, but these wouldn’t leave any proof of our interference behind.

“That’s what I love about you,” I told him.

“What?” he asked, giving me that damn charming, crooked grin of his.  “How brilliant I am?  How devious and sneaky?”

I set the memo pad down on the counter and stood up, my fingers sliding against the tender flesh behind his knees and lifting them apart so I could stand chest-to-chest with him.  “Everything,” I answered.

His hand hooked around the back of my neck and we moved toward each other for a kiss: tart cherries and vanilla.  When he leaned back, I braced my arms on either side of his hips and met his gaze.  “This morning,” I said, not even letting him so much as think of avoiding the issue.  “Are you all right?”

Duo blinked.  Took a breath.  “Yeah, I’m great.  It was, uh… good.”  And then he winced.

I was immediately sorry that I’d asked.

“No, wait,” he backpedaled, grabbing onto my biceps as if I was going to storm out of the room.  I wasn’t, but I didn’t object to his attempt to prevent me from doing so.  “I mean, I… It was better than good.  Kind of too good.  It’s like…”  I waited, breath held.  “It’s like… free fall.  Pure free fall.”

Which explained why he wasn’t exactly hauling me back to bed for an encore.  Duo, for all his supposed chaos and spontaneity, was all about control.  He preferred to roll with the punches and come out on top.  He was driven to show up the people who underestimated him.  He thirsted for the power to define his own destiny.

I glanced down at the memo pad and smiled.  So that’s why he’d gotten out of bed.  He’d just needed some time while he worked out his options.  Our options.  These scribbles were our future if I agreed, and I probably would.  I doubted I’d have any major objections.  There would still be risks, but we would find a way to minimize them.  Yet, I also knew there would be no compromising Duo’s need to be a good point man, to always bring his people back safe and sound.

I loved everything about Duo, but this was one of the highlights: Duo didn’t settle for second best, for _almost_ good enough.

That’s how I knew he loved me.

“Um, look,” he said, bringing my attention back to him.  He was still endearingly nervous but I was already two steps ahead of him, anticipating the next words out of his mesmerizing mouth.  “Are you gonna be OK if I, uh…  I mean, maybe I won’t ask again for, y’know, _that..._ not for, um, a while.”

I smiled, suspicions confirmed.  “It’s fine.”  I lifted a hand and brushed his bangs out of his eyes.  “If you never want it again, it’s fine.”

“But you…”

“I…?”

“Uh, really liked it.”

I didn’t deny it.  I hadn’t been as vocal as when he was inside me, but I’d loved every moment of it, loved taking care of him the way he has done for me time and time again.  What he needed to understand, though, was— “I liked that I was with _you._   That’s all.”

“That’s all?” he checked, always wary of taking anything at face value.

I gave in and allowed my niggling irritation to rise to the fore.  “Would you want something you knew I wasn’t going to enjoy?”

“Well, no, but it’s not that I didn’t like it, it’s just that—”

Now I soothed him.  “There’s a time for it – a specific set of circumstances – and last night was one of those times.”  I studied his eyes, focusing on one and then the other and back again.  “Just like you never offer to do the same for me when we’re here.”  That was true.  It was always non-invasive intimacy while we were on the job, and I preferred it that way.  Only during our days-off when we took the airbus to Galway and drove out to the house did we dare more.  The house was _our_ place.  It was safe and comfortable.  I could leave the soldier on the doorstep and let my husband take care of me.

He let out a shaky breath and I saw that I’d been understood.  “It’s just… I want you to know,” he stumbled awkwardly, his hands moving to play with my bangs, “that’s probably not gonna be the first, last, and only time.”

If it was, it was fine.  I could imagine what letting go like that must demand of him.  I could imagine that the life lessons he’d learned as a child wouldn’t permit him to seek that kind of vulnerability out readily.  That was one of the reasons why I admired him so much.  He was so strong and giving, trying so hard to learn how to lean, to be my partner in everything, but I wasn’t out to change who he was.  I’d fallen in love with his pride and stubbornness and independence, his protective streak and fierce loyalty.  If those aspects of him were somehow diminished, he wouldn’t be _my_ Duo.

“OK,” I said.

“I don’t…”  He paused, swallowed, and gathered his courage.  “I don’t _want_ it to be the first, last, and only time,” he clarified with such openness it made my heart swell with pride and hope and everything else that _no one_ ought to be capable of inspiring in someone like me, but _he_ did.

“Then it won’t.”  I kissed him again, tasting peace and promise.  “It’s dinnertime,” I informed him, reaching for his hands and pulling him off the counter.  “Lasagna, if I’m remembering the menu correctly.”

“I’m pretty sure you are,” he replied, grinning widely as he strolled past me and into the main room to get dressed.

I scooped up the memo pad from the bathroom counter and followed after him.  Before pulling out some clean clothes to wear, I slid it into the bedside table drawer.  Later, after a full stomach and a cup of coffee, we’d have a talk about what was on it.

And I’d be adding a few ideas of my own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The term “helo” for “helicopter” was pinched from a military-based RPG/virtual gaming site. I have no idea if this is current or recognized military jargon. Apparently, it is used in the film “Rules of Engagement” and in several episodes of the TV series “NCIS”… not sure if that’s a point in its favor or not.
> 
> So, Trowa is not perfect (the “soldier” – i.e. The Silencer – is kinda freaky), but he is painfully honest with himself. It might seem strange that Trowa doesn’t have a problem saying “I love you” but, to him, he’s just stating a fact and Trowa (in the original series or in the TooT!verse) has never shied away from facts, no matter how inconvenient or painful. Trowa sees past pretenses so well that it’s sometimes hard to write him because he seems so damn omniscient and unflappable, but luckily he has this “live and let live” philosophy which makes him stand back and watch events unfold even while knowing that others are making mistakes (and he interferes after the fact, only to run damage control). Not many people are able to do that, but Trowa feels that people deserve the consequences of their actions, be those consequences rewards or punishments. How does that factor in with him creating a diversion for Heero and Wufei’s team? Well, it’s his and Duo’s responsibility to bring them back to base safely. So Trowa has to weigh the agents’ rights as free individuals against his own responsibilities with regards to their wellbeing. (Complicated, huh? But that’s Tro all over for ya.) Well, that’s my take on him… which will perhaps get rehashed in a novel-length fic in the future. We shall see.
> 
> “First, Last, and Only Time” and its two direct sequels (“The Unseen” and “Patron Saints”) lead up to the next story in the TooT!verse: “Tag and Other Backyard Games” BUT there are several other short fics that will get sprinkled in here before we get to the sequel.


	25. Something to Celebrate (a TooT continuation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows “Two out of Three” – For Duo and Trowa, beginnings are more important than birthdays. Duo POV. Takes place sometime after Duo and Trowa complete their Preventer training.

We didn’t do much in the way of birthdays.  Well, OK, we took Quatre out to a karaoke bar the next time his rolled around.  Who knew he could sing, right?  It was too bad about his two left feet, though.  Quatre and dancing were so incompatible they weren’t even on speaking terms.  No wonder Dorothy Catalonia had skewered him with that stupid sword during the final battle.  But I kept my mouth shut and ordered him another Fuzzy Navel because that’s just what friends do on your birthday.  I guess.

When Wufei’s rolled around, he insisted we not make a fuss but, with the Win-meister leading the cavalry charge, of course we did.  But, y’know, quietly.  We surprised him with library membership cards to every brick-and-mortar book bank in the city plus several online, world-renowned university archives.  Tro and I were in charge of squaring away the online stuff.

“Your login is ‘MysteryCritic,’” I told him, handing over the cheesy card Tro had picked out at a convenience store down the street.  Well, OK, I’d bought the damn thing, but how could I not when my life partner had been standing there holding the thing in his hands and snickering at it right there in the aisle?  With that kind of endorsement, it had to be a keeper.

The front of the card read:

_Karmageddon: It’s, like, when everyone’s giving off these really bad vibes, and then, like, the earth explodes and…_

I waited for it and—

Yup, as soon as Wufei opened the card, a sad, tinny, wince-worthy recording of an explosion blasted any and all within earshot.  And then some faceless voice said with profound disappointment, “It’s, like, a serious bummer.”

“That’s not a birthday card,” Quatre disapproved.  Sheesh, the way he acted you’d think birthdays were sacred or something.

“We know that,” I retorted, defending our collective common sense.

Trowa shrugged.  “You said, ‘Whatever you do, don’t write the login names and passwords on a crumpled sheet of recycle bin copy paper,’” he reminded Quatre.  He then gestured to the card.  “That’s the whatever.”

I snickered so hard I think I separated my palate from the roof of my mouth.

Quatre blinked, unimpressed.  “I’ll be more specific with my instructions next time.”

Well, he could try, I guess, but I was pretty sure Trowa and I had already set the bar.

“Cross, Armstrong,” Wufei growled, glaring at the passwords we’d chosen for him.

“What?” I asked in burgeoning affront.

“Tell me I can change these to something more dignified.”

“You can change them to something more dignified,” Trowa dutifully droned.

I shrugged, letting it go.  “P!nkLulUToot00” and “W0oB3arHugZ” were perfectly good passwords.  I guess there was just no accounting for taste.

Heero had chosen to share his actual birthdate with Relena.  There was a story there, I was sure.  Something more than the it’ll-be-easy-to-remember excuse.  And I was planning on digging it outta him in the most embarrassing fashion possible: in public.

“You’re plotting,” Trowa informed me as I paced back and forth in front of the door, waiting for him to figure out which pair of pants he was going to wear to the five-star restaurant Relena had reserved for the occasion.

“Yeah?  What’re ya gonna do about it?”

He smirked and stepped into his chosen pair of irreverently casual jeans.  (God, I loved him seventy times more for his choice, too.  They were ripped up and threadbare and they were gonna see the inside of a classy joint that had a revolving view of the city’s skyline: my husband was epic I-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-your-silver-spoon cool.  I made a mental note to inform him of this later in great detail.)

“Still plotting over here.  Unrepentantly,” I reminded him.  “Waiting for the ultimatum.  Threats of maiming and torture may now commence.  Let’s have it.  Fire when ready.”

He caught my belt buckle and pulled me up against his bare chest.  “You’re too obvious,” he said instead.  “The others are going to catch on.”

“Catch on to what?”

“Your plot.”

“Which is what, exactly?” I tested.

“I don’t know.”

“But you’re dreading it, right?”  That’s what I was going for.  Stomach-shredding anxiety.  Bhoo yeah.  That’s where it’s at.

Trowa shrugged.  “Don’t complain to me when you lose the element of surprise.”  He shut me up with a sweet kiss and then went to go pick out a shirt.  It was a tank top.  I grinned as he pulled a denim jacket off the hanger to go over it.

“What?” he asked as he put it on and started rolling up the sleeves to his elbows.

I shook my head in appreciation.  “Sometimes I still shock and amaze myself with my own brilliance.”

He gave me a prompting look.

“I asked you to marry me,” I informed him.  “Best idea I ever had.  And, between you and me, that’s really sayin’ something.”

He replied by wrapping an arm around my waist and drawing me close.  This time the kiss was longer.  Much longer.  Actually, the guys had to come up and fetch us because we were late meeting them in the lobby downstairs.

But, anyway.

My evil plan to ferret out exactly _why_ Heero had chosen Relena Darlian’s birthday as his own sort of took a swan dive as the evening progressed.  I’d been expecting Heero to supply me with a nice, fat springboard off which to launch my attack – say, tripping all over himself to push her seat in for her or stuttering through banal greetings or gazing longingly across the table at her.  Did anything remotely like that happen?  No.

Relena didn’t help me much, either.  She greeted Heero as warmly as she welcomed the rest of us.  Hilde received a sisterly hug – from what I’d gathered, Relena and Hilde had worked together to create our new identities while the five of us were stuck in WEI – and was bewilderingly enthusiastic when Howard and Cathy (who had also been co-conspirators in the whole reinventing-the-Gundam-pilots plot) finally arrived, fashionably late.

I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that Cathy had somehow gotten Howard into a dress shirt and grey trousers.  At least the necktie was recognizably ridiculous.  The man had an unnatural fascination with flamingoes.  I asked Howie if he was wearing matching socks while Cathy was giving Trowa an exuberant hug.

“No champagne for me,” Cathy said after we all settled down.

“You love champagne,” Trowa remarked.  How he knew this, I could only guess.  He tracked the movement of Howie’s hand as he collected Cathy’s atop the table.

Sporting a beaming smile, she replied, “Yes, but it’s not good for the baby.”

Hello.

Relena squealed with glee.  Quatre offered his congratulations.  Hilde beamed.  I jerked reflexively as, out of the corner of my eye, Trowa stiffened and froze.  My hand shot out and I grabbed his shoulder before The Silencer scooped for the nearest steak knife.

Oh shit.  We were gonna be uncles.  Uncles.

Oh.  Shit.

I just… really needed a moment.  My fingers digging into the sleeve of Trowa’s jean jacket, I sat there and blinked for a minute as all the standard questions got asked – how far along she was (nine weeks), if they knew the baby’s sex yet (they wanted to be surprised), what names they’d picked out—

What shocked me back to myself was hearing _Wufei,_ of all people, asking that last question.  I made an effort to stop cutting off the circulation in Trowa’s arm.

“You OK?” I asked him quietly.

He nodded haltingly.  “Are you?”

“Uh, the diagnostic scan is still in progress.”

He barked out a laugh.  “Keep me updated.”

“Copy that.”

So, Cathy’s little announcement had kinda knocked me off-course, but bantering with Trowa guided me back onto the correct trajectory.  Trowa and I would congratulate Howard and Cathy in private later.  And then we’d all have a laugh over the looks that had been on our faces and how big a tip Howard was gonna have to drop in order to get copies printed from the restaurant’s video cameras.

Right.  Back to the birthday girl and the birthday boy who were now debating politics like it was a spectator sport.  Hilde, Wufei, and Quatre kept glancing from one to the other like they were engrossed in a table tennis match.  Back during the war, I would have bet my boots that Relena’d had set her sights on Heero.  Now, though, she smiled and shook her head at Heero’s support of some policy or other and he snorted rudely when she veered into the realm of idealism.  If there was “something” there between them, I wasn’t seein’ it.

It felt like my target was evaporating right before my eyes, like I was watching frozen carbon dioxide on the deck of Howard’s barge in the Caribbean steam and mist into nuthin’.  Hell, maybe Heero really _had_ chosen Relena’s birthdate because it was easy to remember.  When I just couldn’t take it anymore, I came right out and asked.

Heero actually gave us all a little Wufei-esque smirk.  “Relena’s was the first birthday party I’d ever been invited to.  So, when I had to choose a birthdate, I remembered the date on the invitation and just wrote that down.”

“Huh?”

“What?”

I gaped.  Relena blinked.  Hell, almost everyone at the table was freakin’ flabbergasted.

Heero laughed.  He actually laughed.  I reached out to sniff his water glass.  Had someone slipped him some funny juice or something?

He snatched the fancy wine glass back from me.  “You asked,” he reminded me.

I guess I had.  I didn’t mention what a sad, sorry thing it was that he’d had to wait something like sixteen years for his first birthday party invitation.  I flagged down a waiter and requested that our dessert course come with a candle for the birthday boy.  If he’d never had the pleasure of making a wish and blowing out a cheap, pastel-colored, generic candle, then he wasn’t gonna go another year without experiencing it.

Later that evening, while Trowa and I were, uh, recovering from the post-party celebration in the privacy of our room, afterglow and alcohol mixing in a nice harmonious buzz, he rolled toward me and asked, “What do you want to do for your birthday?”

_“My_ birthday?”  I blinked at him.  Hell, birthdays weren’t for guys like me.  I mean, I’d chosen one because I had to have one according to the ESUN citizenship registry, not because it actually meant anything.  “What about yours?” I challenged and I saw the same thoughts reflected in his eyes.

So we talked about becoming uncles instead, keeping the conversation abstract.  I did not want to think about Howie and Cathy, y’know, _breeding._   Eugh.

And we talked about Heero’s birthday, but the conversation sort of faded into something uncertain.  I didn’t know what to think about our buddy’s admission.  It seemed so painfully random that he’d chosen the date that had been printed on the first birthday party invitation he’d ever been given.  Like, such-and-such a date is for declaring world peace, and another such-and-such a date is for fucking up and killing a bunch of pacifist leaders by mistake, and this such-and-such a date is for birthdays.  There ya go, kiddo.  Your life’s itinerary.

It was so… pathetic.  And yet he’d found meaning in it… while that same meaning continued to elude me and Trowa.

So, who was more pathetic, really?

Damn.

That year, both of us made it a point to escape the city on our official birthdays.  On Tro’s we went to Paris for a couple of days and did some sightseeing.  On mine, we invaded Guillaume and Pierra’s home again and Tro learned about the wonders of roasting a ham while I stood in as his self-appointed taste-tester.  Our birthdays were no big deal, mostly because they weren’t really _ours._   Celebrating would be pointless and empty.

But there was one day I really, really wanted to make the most of.

“Don’t buy me anything or whatever on Wednesday,” I told him as I wandered into the bathroom to brush my teeth while he shaved.

He paused.  Froze.  Oh, yeah.  He knew what this coming Wednesday was.  It was our one-year wedding anniversary.  “You don’t want to celebrate,” he summed up in a flat tone, the razor hovering over his lathered cheek.

“I don’t want to celebrate a mission objective,” I clarified.  I turned toward him.  Wrapping my arms around his waist from behind and pressing my cheek against his shoulder, I met his gaze in the mirror’s reflection as I explained, “I want to celebrate the day I slid this ring onto your finger—”  I tugged his left hand to my lips and kissed his scarred knuckles.  “—and you said ‘I do’—”  I pressed my palm to the center of his chest.  “—and I realized _we_ had a future.”

He released the breath he’d been holding and smiled.  “What do you want to do?”

“I dunno.  I’ve never had something like this to celebrate before.”

“Me either.”

I grinned.  “Let’s have a cake.”

“With candles.  And a bottle of wine.”

“Anything else?” I checked, amused by his enthusiasm.  Somehow I’d known he’d take my idea and run-like-the-wind with it.

“The house,” he said.  “Let’s go to the house.  I’ll cook.”

“But it’s _your_ day, too,” I protested.

“You can drive us there.”

“Oh, the joys of sheep dodging.”

“Do we have deal?” he asked, placing his hand over mine where it rested upon his chest.

I pressed my mouth to his bare shoulder.  “We have a damn sight more than that.”

The next year, we decided to let Quatre and the guys make a small-ish fuss over our official birthdays.  It was easier than trying to explain why it just wasn’t necessary.  It was important to them that we acknowledge the day of our respective births even if there was no way to know exactly when those momentous events had occurred.  Our friends needed this, so we just smiled and went with the flow.

And we took time off to go visit Howie and Cathy and their little bundle of joy, Leslianne, our niece.  Of course she loved her Uncle Trowa.  Don’t ask me what it is about him that lulls caged lions, Gods of Death, and screaming newborns into a bona fide happy place, but if he could figure out how to bottle it for sale, he’d be a billionaire.  Me, I was standing by with the burping towels, listening to Howard wax philosophical about fatherhood.  It was clear that the birth of his daughter was the most important day of his life and seeing how it had transformed him made me grin like an idiot.

But for Trowa and I, our first day as a married couple in our house in Ireland was always gonna be the biggest day of our lives: the day we chose to help each other be the best versions of ourselves, to be more together than we could ever become separately, the day we were no longer lost but found.  Maybe it wasn’t the sort of thing you could buy a greeting card for but, as far as I was concerned, it was definitely something to celebrate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Karmageddon” is not my idea. I’m pinching it from the Washington Post’s Mensa Invitational 2006 entries. (Go check them out. Awesome stuff there. Awesome.) 
> 
> So, I hint at the shared history between Hilde, Howard, Cathy, and Relena who all worked actively to help the Gundam pilots both before and during their time at WEI. That’s where I imagine Cathy and Howard met and got together, actually. I can so see Cathy pulling a “Sally Po” move and going all guerrilla fighter on behalf of her “little brother” Trowa, leaving the circus to play an active role in helping the Sweepers set up a jailbreak scenario. Of course, Hilde joined the Preventers in an attempt to try to help Duo and the others. Relena used her political clout and connections. Perhaps someday I’ll write a fic about their side of things.


	26. Mission: Complete (a TooT continuation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows “Two out of Three” – Duo realizes the lengths Wufei has gone to in order to help him. Wufei POV. Takes place after Duo and Trowa become pilots for the Preventers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Following "Two out of Three," Duo goes by "Joseph 'JC' Cross" and Trowa goes by "Tristan Armstrong."

“You are late,” I observed as Maxwell stomped across the threshold.

“Yeah, yeah.  I know.”

I didn’t look up from the mission specs until he’d slid into the seat across from my desk with a gusty sigh.  I gave him an expectant look.  He might as well get it out of his system before we got started.

He ran a hand over his ever-lengthening ponytail and grumbled, “I can’t find my freakin’ house key, OK?  And our flight to Galway is in three hours and, Goddamnit, it just _bugs_ me that I don’t have it.”

I shook my head.  The man was a brilliant strategist and an unparalleled pilot, but sometimes he was an idiot.  “Look up the tracking signature.”

“What?”

“Use Armstrong’s key.  They both utilize the same code.”

“Wufei,” Maxwell began in a dangerous tone.  “Don’t tell me there’s a GPS tracking chip in my house key.”

Woodenly, I complied, “I am not telling you that there is a GPS tracking chip in your house key.”  And then I smirked.

“You—!  Dammit!”  He ran a hand over his hair again.  “Shit, man.  I spent all damn morning tearing the place apart looking for— hold up!”

I arched a brow imperiously as he squinted his eyes in thought.  “I had that key on me from the time Une gave us our new files until Tris and I officially signed up.”

I waited to see if he’d get around to asking an actual question.

He very nearly did.  “So you _knew_ where I’d taken Deathscythe after I’d left!”

“As did Director Une.”

He blinked.  “And she just waited to see what I was gonna do with it?”

“Yes.”  Did the man not see that she was our greatest ally?  In her official capacity, she could not expunge our records or acquit us of our war crimes, but the woman was essentially our character witness.  Without her endorsement, none of us would have been given the opportunity to rebuild our lives.  Without her, Maxwell's rash sacrifices and Barton's mad gamble would have come to naught.  In time, once our reputations were repaired, we would be free to leave the relative protection of the Preventers to rejoin society.  If any of us so chose.

I was sure Maxwell was intelligent enough to have figured this out for himself.  But, apparently, I’d been mistaken.

He pressed doggedly, “And you knew where I was for those three months!”

“Yes.  Although he never requested your location, Armstrong appreciated the updates on your general wellbeing that I emailed him.” I glared at him.  Letting Barton know that his spouse had still been among the living should have been _Maxwell’s_ job, not mine.

I was unsurprised when the reprimand zoomed right over his head.  Nothing distracted Maxwell from the trail once he’d gotten the scent and, at the moment, he was sniffing out a different implication entirely.

“Sonuvabitch,” he announced.  “You knew I was comin’ in and you _called him_ before I even showed up in your office!”

“Of course.  You know that I usually meditate on Saturday mornings.”

“But what if I’d said… I dunno, something—?!”

I cut him off.  He was being ridiculous and we had work to do.  “Cross, it has always been clear how much you respect Armstrong.  In the week leading up to the incident with the Barton Foundation, even a blind man could see how high your regard for him was.  You were not going to burst into my office and say something asinine.”

“OK, maybe not.”  He subsided, finally.  Flipping open the folder I’d handed him, he scanned the mission details.  He would need this data in order for both him and Barton to select an appropriate craft and outfit it with the required armament and supplies, which would hopefully _not_ be required this time.  As thankful as I was that he and Barton had acted when they had – and there was no denying that they'd saved lives on that mission – I took Une’s side on the matter: they should not have gotten involved.  Or, leastwise, not so blatantly.  Hopefully, our upcoming live op mission would be nothing out-of-the-ordinary and the pilots’ primary concerns need only be the standard ones: selecting a secure drop-off and pick-up point, the scheduling and rationing of fuel—

“Hm,” Maxwell said suddenly, looking up from the paperwork in his hands.  “It’s unlike you to be that careless.”

I blinked at him blankly.

He grinned.  “You had a video phone on your desk when I dropped by that day.”  When I just stared at him a bit more, he prompted, “A _video_ phone with a _camera_ cozying up to the confidential Preventers documents on your desk?”

Ah.  He was still obsessing needlessly over the conversation I’d arranged for Barton to overhear.  I endeavored to put his mind at ease, which would have the added plus of getting him to drop the subject once and for all.  “I’ve since returned it to the media requisitions department.”

“Not a very stealthy way to dispose of evidence.”

“It was never evidence,” I retorted.  “It was a logistical necessity.”

At long last, Maxwell turned his attention back to the file.  “Thanks, man.  Mission: complete.”

“Yes,” I answered with no small amount of satisfaction.  Maxwell’s wedding band caught my eye and I grinned smugly.  “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written partially in response to suspicions of Une and her motives. I still give the woman two “faces” in the TooT!verse: her “director” persona which is her public face and a second which can only be inferred as being a friend to the pilots. But the other reason for this fic was to give Wufei his moment to be a good friend.


	27. A Christmas Crusade (a TooT continuation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows “Two out of Three” – Christmas is a time for visits from the past. Trowa POV.

So this is Christmas.

I believe there’s an old song with that line.  If I bothered to turn on the radio, I might even hear it playing, queued up among all the other pre-programmed holiday hits that were being transmitted from an unmanned radio station.  The date was December 25th and even though the majority of the world wasn’t Christian, the tradition had spread thanks to the cultural and commercial exportation of it in the early twenty-first century.

Today was Christmas and while most of the world was bundled up at home, gorging on festively colored sweets and basking in the artificial glow of gaudy decorations, Duo and I were here, manning the fort.

I sighed as I wandered past the observation deck windows for the forty-third time this morning.  We were the only ones here, on call in case of emergency.  Our chosen helicopter was prepped and ready for launch.  A backup jet was also standing by, fueled and stocked.

Duo and I had nothing to do but wait and countdown to our shift change.

I’d rather be spending the day at the house, but, as that would entail fighting the holiday traffic and paying exorbitant airfare rates, I knew that getting what I wanted in this case would only make me miserable and grouchy.  And then there was Duo’s ever-volatile and unpredictable Shinigami to consider.  Traveling in these conditions would call the God of Death out like a siren’s song.  It was easier and smarter to accept the fact that, as the team with the lowest seniority, we were stuck with working the holiday shift.  Someone had to do it and it might as well be us.  It was the only viable option given our available choices.

I was on pass number forty-four when Duo sighed, tossed aside the crossword puzzle he wasn’t making any progress on, pushed himself out of his chair, and marched over to the far wall where the bank of personal lockers had been installed.  He opened up his with a noisy clatter and pulled out a black, plastic bag.  Watching him and speculating on what he was up to was more interesting than staring at the helo again, so I turned and leaned back against the glass, tucking my hands into my trouser pockets.

“Are you… humming?” I checked as he set the bag down next to one of the break room tables and began wrestling with the ties.

“Uh, maybe?” he admitted, giving me a shy grin that made me want to help him remember how _not_ shy he could be.

I forced myself to stay put.  We were on call and in the hangar lounge.  It would have to wait.

Duo pulled out a satiny-looking, green cloth and shook it out over the table, tugging it so it draped equally on both sides.  Then he removed a sealed plastic dish, a thermos, and a—

“What is that?”

He took great care centering the thing on the table before flicking a switch on the base which caused it to pulse with multi-colored lights.  “This,” he replied, “is a disturbingly commercialized, plastic miniature of something that’s meant to resemble a Christmas tree.  Possibly.  If you tilt your head and squint.”

I stared at the thing, studying its plastic pine needles and painted-on frost.  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Oh, c’mon.  You never celebrated as a kid?”

I didn’t meet Duo’s teasing grin.  I stared at the little, fake tree.  Its blinking lights were mesmerizing.  “The captain would give me a stocking filled with sweets and trinkets every year up until I was tall enough and strong enough to pilot a mobile suit.”  After my first battle and my first kill, magic and fairytales like Santa Claus were ridiculously morbid.

I startled when I felt Duo’s hand slide into mine.  He’d moved around the table to lean against the window ledge next to me.  “I used to try to decorate for the rest of the gang.  Y’know, carrying on the tradition.”

I nodded.  He’d told me about the gang, and about the boy who’d helped him become the person he was today: Duo was the one who always had everything under control, the one you could count on to come through for you, the one who didn’t know the meaning of the word “surrender.”

Gesturing to the little setup on the table, I asked, “You’re feeling nostalgic this year?”  He certainly hadn’t gone to any trouble for the Christmases we’d spent at WEI but, as far as Duo was concerned, time had been standing still for those four years.  It made sense that he wouldn’t want to mark its passing.  None of us had.  As children, Quatre and Wufei certainly would have celebrated holidays with their families – the Islamic or Chinese New Year at the very least – but no one had ever mentioned their passing.  It could be argued that the five of us really had been living in a state of suspended animation at WEI.  I hadn’t noticed.  In my case (and possibly Heero’s), things had merely been continuing on, everything status quo.  The war had been nothing but a year-long blip on the otherwise unrelentingly dark radar screen.

The realization knocked something loose inside me, some layer of insulating armor I was carrying.  I’d never had a normal holiday.  I’d never acknowledged that there even _was_ a normal holiday to be had.  Although he’d never experienced that normalcy, Duo had recognized it, and now… now he was trying to figure out exactly what it was.  I blinked at the plastic, foot-high tree and its mechanical, battery-powered lights.  Duo was trying to give us a Christmas, a _real_ Christmas.

“Me?  Nostalgic?”  He grinned crookedly.  “Well… maybe.  But you look like you could use a little holiday spirit.”

He didn’t tug me toward the table, though, which was what I was expecting.  I turned toward him in time to catch a brief, pained look tugging at his brows and lips.

I rubbed my thumb over his knuckles, reminding him that I was here, that his hand was still holding onto mine.  He closed his eyes and sighed.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry it wasn’t _you_ that I was looking out for.”

Frowning, trying to imagine the leaps in logic he’d taken to arrive at this apology, I said, “When were you not looking out for me?”

“In WEI,” he admitted.  “From the moment we set foot in that building, I was determined to get us out somehow.  _All_ of us.”  He paused, considering his next words.  “And the gym sessions… we needed to be an _us._   The five of us, I mean.  A team, a family, a unit.  Like my gang.  It was the only way I knew how to… to…”

When he floundered, I lifted his hand, which was still clutching mine, to my chest, nudging the pendant beneath my shirt with his fingers.  “I knew you were looking out for all of us right from the start,” I summarized, “and I knew those weekends in the gym were for all of us, not just for me.”

Rather than providing comfort, my words seemed to distress him further.

I confessed, “That’s what made me fall for you in the first place.  The fact that you… _cared…_ for _all_ of us.”

He looked up, read my expression, and chuckled.  “That doesn’t make any sense, babe.”

“I know.”  It was counter-intuitive.  Most people wanted to be special – they wanted to be singled out – and I had wanted that eventually.  But at first, I’d been too raw from the final battle, too uncertain of my own shaky memories, too frightened by the things I knew how to do but couldn’t remember learning.  I’d gone off to battle; I’d piloted Heavyarms; I’d killed people.  And through it all, I’d wondered if I was still missing something, some motivation or reason for _why_ I was doing what I was doing.  Even after we’d won, I was… lost.  And Duo had found me, had pulled us all together in those weeks and months following the world’s rejection of us and our sacrifices.

In the silence of the hangar lounge, I tried to explain this, although I wasn’t sure if it really came out the way I intended.  After fumbling through the words, I finally said, “You showed me I was… equal to the others.  I needed that.”

He was quiet for a long moment and I began to get irritated with myself.  I could speak well on abstract subjects, on war and peace and sacrifice and duty, but I couldn’t thank my husband for simply being himself.

But, perhaps it did come across the way I’d hoped it would because Duo sighed, leaned his shoulder against mine, and confided, “Keeping all of us from hiding in our rooms like hermits… that kept me sane.”

“It gave you a measure of control,” I observed.

“Yeah, I guess it did.  Still, I should have realized you were…  I mean, I think you’re special.  Really special.”

“I know you do,” I softly chided him.  “But being an object of one person’s crusade is unnerving.”  And somehow undermining, like trying to cover up the fact that someone is lacking by heaping accolades upon them in the hope that they won’t notice their own deficiencies.

Duo seemed to understand that, too.  “Oh.  Well, when you put it that way…”

I studied his profile, watching him think.  I saw the question and answered it before he had to say it aloud.  “Yes, I’ve been singled out for saving before.”

“It was not a good experience, I take it.”

“No.”

“And, if you were the object of another crusade now?” he asked softly, his gaze shifting guiltily toward the festive table.

I smiled wryly.  “A Christmas crusade?”

He laughed.  “Yeah.  Sounds pretty corny when you say it like that.”

I put my arm around his shoulders and leaned my head against his.  “I like corny.”

I felt his laughter all down the side of my body.  “So the tree’s a keeper?”

Giving it a frank appraisal, I answered, “It’s hideous.  We’re definitely keeping it.”

“The cookies and coffee will be better.  I promise,” he replied, chuckling.  I let him drag me over to the table.  We angled our seats so that my left knee bumped his right as we passed the thermos cap between us and dusted our shirts with cookie crumbs and baking flour.

“They’re from Pierra,” he explained and I added them to the list of things she had yet to teach me how to make.

At some point, his right hand came to rest on my thigh, and my left arm slid over the back of his chair, my fingers tugging absently at his ponytail.  Neither one of us mentioned anything about carols or presents.  Nor did we volunteer any more memories or anecdotes from the past.  We didn’t need to.  We were making new memories now and enjoying the gifts we’d already been given: each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the part about being singled out and not liking it, Trowa is referring to his encounter with Midii Une, which is detailed in the Episode Zero manga. Long story short, Midii (a girl who was about Trowa’s age) was a spy for the Alliance (under duress) and ended up getting Trowa’s entire troupe killed. Trowa was the only survivor and that was because she was looking out for him, protecting him. They parted ways badly and Trowa headed off to space.


	28. Past, Present, Future (a TooT continuation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows “Two out of Three” – Trowa and Duo have been working as pilots for the Preventers for about two years. The boys are visiting Cathy and Howard and their infant daughter, Leslianne, so this could take place during “Something to Celebrate”, I guess… Cathy POV.

“Do you miss the circus?” Trowa asked quietly.

His tone was so softly normal that I didn’t really pay attention to the question at first.  “The circus?” I echoed, looking up from arranging the shawl draped over my front for the sake of privacy.  How odd that I didn’t mind breast-feeding my baby here on the top deck of Howard’s flagship with an audience.  How odd that Trowa didn’t seem to be phased by it at all when it sent Duo scurrying from the vicinity.

He nodded once.  My little Trowa: always so stingy with his words and gestures.  He repeated, “Do you miss it?”

A personal question from Trowa.  Would wonders never cease. 

I had to stop and think about it.  “I suppose I do.  Sometimes.  Still, the Sweepers are…”  I trailed off, unsure of how to really explain that a bunch of rambunctious, over-grown boys with more battle scars than most war veterans could be as much of a family as the circus manager and my fellow performers had been.  More so since there were no masks.  No posturing, either.  Just work and play.  They were my boys.

“Yes, they are,” he agreed mildly.

I breathed out a nostalgic sigh and let myself remember the good times.  “But, the lights, the applause, the _joy_ of it… I guess I miss those things.  And my costume.”  I’d made it myself and I’d been pretty pleased with how it had turned out.

Some might argue that a circus was a frivolous thing, but entertainment was important.  And family was important.  The circus served both its visitors and its workers in those very ways.  I didn’t regret my decision to leave and join the effort to free the Gundam pilots because I’d gained much more than I’d given up.  But now that he’d mentioned it, I wondered about my little brother Trowa.

He’d been Duo’s copilot at the Preventers for some time now.  I’d never considered the possibility that he wasn’t happy doing that.  But now that it had occurred to me – and unsettled me – I had to ask.  That was my right as a nosey older sister.

Tilting my head to the side, I probed, “Do _you_ miss it?”

“Every day,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the shawl as Leslianne waved her fist beneath it and fussed slightly.

I resettled her and Trowa reached out to help me adjust the shawl so it didn’t fall into my lap.  I didn’t think it would bother me so much – I was a _mom,_ after all – but he’d be embarrassed on my behalf.  Especially with the guys up in the pilothouse looking on.  Although, with Howard at the helm, he’d make sure they wouldn’t be enjoying the view.

“What do you miss about the circus?” I pressed.  Being with the Sweepers, I felt needed the same way I had with the circus, but now I had a way of affecting change.  Some of the assignments Howard and the crew have taken on may not have been legal, but they always made a difference in the end.  I enjoyed being a part of that.  And helping my little Trowa earn his freedom… that had been the best part of all.

Trowa glanced over the deck railing and out at the calm Pacific.  It was a beautiful day.  He should be smiling.  “I miss the simplicity,” he admitted softly.  “The harmless simplicity.”

“Not so harmless,” I reminded him.  “I cut you that one time.”  I still felt wretched about it.

He shrugged my guilt aside.  “It didn’t even scar.”  He sounded disappointed.

“I can give you one now if that’ll make you happy,” I chirped.

A tiny smile twitched at his lips.  “It wouldn’t be the same.”  He looked back at me and explained, “It wouldn’t be a souvenir from the circus.”

If he wanted a souvenir…  “I still have your mask,” I offered and he stared at me blankly.  I gave him a smug grin.  It wasn’t often that I could surprise him.  Usually, it was the other way around.  “Would you like to have it?”

Reluctantly, he nodded.

“I’ll get it for you before you and Duo leave tomorrow.”  I considered him for a moment before prying a bit further, “Your work now isn’t harmless or simple?”

“Nothing is simple where Duo’s safety is involved.”

My arms tightened around my daughter.  I could imagine how he felt.  Trowa was a quiet sort of guy, but he had a sense of honor that ran miles wide and was as strong as neo-steel.  The hard look in his eyes confirmed that he didn’t just fly planes and helicopters for the Preventers.  He did something else.  Something dangerous.  Something he couldn’t even tell his older sister about.

But I dared this much: “You do what you do because _he_ does?”

“No.  Because someone has to, and I trust Duo and myself to do the right thing.”

“Would you still do it if you were alone?”  More than anything, I wondered how much Duo’s preferences influenced Trowa’s choices.

“If I were alone, I’d still be scrubbing toilets and mopping up the break room at WEI.”

It was a safer job, but my little Trowa had never valued safe things much.

In a rare moment of generosity, he added, “But I’d still be in love with him.”

I counted the months from the day Trowa had left WEI.  “Two years is a long time to carry a torch for someone,” I admonished gently.

He smiled again.  “I carried it for a lot longer than that.”

Goodness!  I’d had no idea.  Although, maybe I should have.  Duo’s visit to the circus back during the war had affected Trowa profoundly.  I could see how over time that could have grown rather than faded.  In some ways, my little Trowa reminded me of a duckling, imprinting on anyone who showed him both kindness and strength.  Thankfully, he’d found someone worthy in Duo.

I eased Leslianne away and out from beneath the shawl.  Trowa tossed a clean towel over his shoulder and held out his arms to take her for burping while I reassembled my blouse.  Watching him handle her, I knew he’d make a wonderful father.  Just as I knew he’d never think to ask for that for himself.  Although, if Duo wanted kids…

“Have you and Duo discussed the future?” I asked, glancing meaningfully at my daughter.

Trowa blushed.  “No.  Not… no.”

“You might want to think about it.  The Preventers are a worthy cause, but they’ll take the best years of your life before you know it.”

Trowa studied my expression for a long moment – until Leslianne’s happy erp broke the silence – and then he chuckled, bringing her down from his shoulder and wiping her face with a clean corner of the towel.  “You may be right,” he answered and then settled my daughter back into my arms.

I didn’t for a moment think that Trowa was going to have a talk with Duo about kids, but surely there was something else they wanted to do with their lives at some point down the road.  Movement on the deck near the stairs alerted me to Duo’s arrival.  Or maybe he’d been listening in the entire time and had just now decided to make his presence known.

Well, I could be accommodating.  I was their hostess after all.

“I’m going to put Leslianne down for her nap,” I announced, moving in the direction of the stairs but then pausing after I’d taken a few steps.  “I’ll find your old mask, too, while I’m thinking of it.”

Trowa nodded and leaned back against the ship’s railing, crossing his arms over his chest.  “Thanks.”

Smiling, I continued on my way.  I was unsurprised to turn the corner and find Duo standing on the steps just below deck-level, one hand curled over the railing in a white-knuckled grip.  He had the same wide-eyed look that I’d seen on his face when he’d rediscovered Trowa after his accident.  Desperate and uncertain.  A little frightened.  As if he were considering the distant future and his place in it for the first time.

“He loves you,” I remarked softly.  When Duo calmed and blinked, I added, “He’d follow you anywhere.”

Duo frowned stubbornly.

I gave him a smile – it felt different from the one I reserved for my little brother but no less sincere – and nodded for him to join Trowa above.

“Just think about it,” I advised and then left them to sort it out.  I took my time putting Leslianne to bed and locating Trowa’s old performance mask in my box of keepsakes stowed in the cabin closet.

When I returned to the freighter’s top deck, the sun was just starting to set.  I glanced in the direction of where I’d left Trowa standing by himself at the railing.  He wasn’t alone now, thank goodness.  Duo was beside him, leaning his head on Trowa’s shoulder with one arm around Trowa’s waist, plucking aimlessly at his shirt.  Trowa leaned against him in return, an arm around Duo’s shoulders and his fingers tracing circles on his arm.  I could hear the soft, baritone rumble of their voices but not their actual words.

I retreated back down the stairs.  I’d give Trowa his mask later.  And I was confident that there would be a later.  Now that they were thinking about it, there would probably be a lot of laters.  A whole future of them.


	29. A Crossword Puzzle between Lovers (an unplanned TooT continuation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows “Two out of Three” – Trowa and Duo are pilots for the Preventers. Could take place just about anytime among the other continuations. Trowa POV.

“You never cease to surprise me, babe.”

I looked up from the crossword puzzle I was destroying.  Everything had been going wrong today and the urge to tear someone’s throat out with my bare hands had nearly overwhelmed me.  I’d been so furious with the universe that I hadn’t even trusted myself with a sparring match.  I’d retreated to the flight break room and taken a seat just behind the door.  A newspaper had been abandoned on the corresponding table.  I’d torn through it until I’d hit the daily crossword puzzle.

Duo slid into the seat across from mine, stretching his feet out until our boots knocked against each other.  “Y’know, they used to use crossword puzzles to send coded messages.”

I nodded.  I did know that.  I also knew that I’d never be able to manage something so seemingly simple because— “My spelling sucks.”

My husband grinned.  “Mine, too.  There’s no point in trying to remember it.  I mean, hell.  Spell-checker.  ‘Nuff said, right?”

I nodded and scratched in my best guess for number 12 across.

“Hey,” Duo started up again, a fresh insight popping into his mind.  “This kinda reminds me of the first time we had dinner together.  Just the two of us.”

I stiffened.  This was the last thing I needed after the day I’d been having.

I knew what he was about to say.  I remembered that Valentine’s Day like it was yesterday.  I would never forget how sweaty my hands had been as the sealed envelope had fluttered from my grasp onto Duo’s desk at WEI.  I’d waited and watched for him to arrive and find it.  The instant he had – the very moment I’d seen him frown down at his desktop – I’d turned away and busied myself with looking busy, but I’d been close enough to hear the telltale rip of paper when he’d opened it.  I hadn’t dared to glance in his direction for the rest of the day, terrified that he’d somehow connect the type-written words on the single sheet of paper to my trembling fingertips.

I’d agonized for days over how to word it.  In the end, it had read more like a mission outline than an actual love letter:

_Duo Maxwell,_

_You are strong, courageous, and amazing._

_I want you to know how I feel and who I am, so I’ll be doing a crossword puzzle alone in the cafeteria tonight.  18:00._

_Don’t sit with me if you don’t want to.  I’ll understand._

I blinked back into the present just as Duo was summarizing the evening, “So I showed up at eighteen hundred hours, right?  Didn’t see a crossword puzzle, but I saw you and…”

And I knew what had happened next: I’d been sitting alone at my chosen table, fists clenched and screaming in silence at myself to just put the paper on the table and _start the damned crossword puzzle already!_ when I’d seen him enter the room and scan each table.  I hadn’t looked away fast enough and suddenly he was grinning right at me and giving me a nod of greeting before shuffling along with what he called “the supper scrunch” to acquire sustenance.  I’d known this was it; my chance to follow through.  _Just lay it on the table.  Before it’s too late!  Just do it!_

And then it had been too late; he’d sauntered over with a grin.  “Hey, Tro.  Mind if I join you?”

I’d shaken my head no, my dry tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.  His tray had clattered as it’d slid close to mine, almost touching.  He’d glanced once more around the cafeteria but, with a shrug of his shoulders, had turned his full attention on me.  “So, what’s new and exciting?”  And his attention hadn’t wandered away a second time.  I’d barely been able to manage my end of the conversation, but Duo hadn’t given up on me and excused himself.  We’d been the last ones to leave the cafeteria.

Riding the elevator up to our floor had been torture.  I was frozen.

“So, Tro.  I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” he’d asked as we’d come upon my door.

I’d nodded.  Stupidly.  Uselessly.

“Maybe I’ll even get ya to crack a smile.”  He gave me a jaunty salute – Duo’s version of a “mission: accepted” – and continued on toward his door.  He’d even turned back to where I was still gaping at him in silence and tossed a happy wave in my direction.

The moment his door had slid closed, I’d followed suit.

And had yanked the daily news’ crossword puzzle section out of the inside pocket of my jean jacket.  I’d glared at it for a long moment, hating how afraid I’d been.  Hating myself for not taking my chance.  Hating how I’d sat there for hours with this damn bundle pressed up against my sweating side as I’d failed with each following moment to summon up the courage to just take it out and _show him!_   Duo and I had been stuck in this hole doing our community service for just over a year and this had been my _chance!_

But if I had – if I’d pulled out this crossword puzzle and let him see me – would he have slid so happily into the chair across from mine?  Would he have given me his entire evening?  Would he have promised to make me smile tomorrow?

The newspaper had fallen into the trash bin with a whispering rustle.

“Baby?”

Duo’s hand came down on mine.  I was on the verge of snapping the dull pencil in half.

I looked up and fell into his searching gaze.

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

I drew a deep breath.  “You are strong, courageous, and amazing,” I quoted.

“Oh, Jesus, baby,” he breathed.  He didn’t even bother to check and make sure we were alone.  Keeping his hand on mine, he rounded the little table and slid onto my lap.  His fingers combed through my hair, pulling every strand away from my face, and then he kissed me.  I wrapped my free arm around him and let him lead.  We’d never kissed while on duty before and my surprise quickly melted into pure awe as he took his time, as he loved me with every movement of his mouth.  With every additional second, I only wanted more.  If he never stopped, it still wouldn’t be enough.

Eventually, the sound of footsteps coming toward us from down the hall broke our embrace.  Duo didn’t retreat back to his chair, though.  He stood and leaned a hip against the table.  With his hand still upon mine atop the crossword puzzle, he confided, “That was the best Valentine’s Day I’d ever had.”

I didn’t ask him what would have happened if I’d found the nerve to follow through and he didn’t thank me for not doing it.

“Mine, too,” I replied and I could feel the gentle shape that my smile gave the words.

The footsteps were close, but they weren’t at the door yet, so Duo brushed his fingertips over my mouth.  “Kept my promise.”

Yes, he had.

“Eventually,” he amended with a self-depreciating grin.

I pressed a kiss to the pads of his fingers before he could pull them away.  “Good things come to those who wait,” I assured him and just like that the sparkle was back in his dark eyes.

“Yeah?  That sounds vaguely familiar.”

I would happily give him a demonstration later.  Duo eased away from the table and sat back down in his chair just as the break room door swung open.  He greeted the newcomer with a nod and, when the man turned away to help himself to the stale coffee service, I felt Duo’s boots knock against mine.

“Which number are you on?” he asked, his gaze on me rather than the puzzle.

I obligingly replied, “Thirteen across.  A 3-letter word for ‘happiness.’”

Duo didn’t take the pencil from my grasp.  Instead, he guided my hand so that I spelled out the answer: us.

I laughed.  I couldn’t help it.  Maybe we could finish this crossword puzzle after all despite our bad spelling skills.  In fact, I was sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a bad day – a really bad day – about two weeks ago, so I decided to write this plot bunny up. It turned out a lot less angsty than the original version I came up with, which had Trowa actually imaging what would have happened if he’d pulled the crossword puzzle out of his pocket. It goes something like this if you’re morbidly curious: 
> 
> Duo still would have sat down, but he wouldn’t have mentioned the crossword puzzle; he’d have rambled about some stuff until Trowa snapped, “I know you’re not interested. I understand.” Then Duo would have hesitated and maybe insisted on helping Trowa finish the puzzle. 
> 
> Duo would have walked Trowa to his door and he might have said something like, “Look, Tro. I dunno. OK? I just… don’t know. Can I… I mean, what if we…?” Then they’d have had their first kiss and Trowa would have been loathe to break it because it was all fireworks and fairydust and he’d know that Duo would freak out on him. But the kiss does end and Duo does freak out and scamper off to his own apartment. 
> 
> Then Duo spends a couple weeks pretending it never happened, but then just when he starts to convince himself that he’d imagined it, Duo comes on to Trowa for another kiss, which is even better than the first and Duo starts to wonder if this is nothing but hormones… but there’s no one else to practice on except the other guys… who at this point want to beat the snot outta him for how he’s been treating Trowa… and it’s more Denial!Duo from there until Howard sends the coded email and Duo realizes he needs Trowa to be his mission partner and... Damn, what a mess!
> 
> So, all of that is implied in the line: I didn’t ask him what would have happened if I’d found the nerve to follow through and he didn’t thank me for not doing it.
> 
> Now, aren't you glad I didn't write 20 pages of teenage angst? (^_~)


	30. The Unseen (a TooT continuation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even when you win, you lose. Duo POV. 
> 
> Rated M for violence, death, gore. Takes place sometime after “First, Last, and Only Time” & “Past, Present, Future.” 
> 
> NOTE: Italicized, present tense sections = flashbacks!!

_A fist zooms through the air.  Impact imminent._

I dodged, ducking under the knuckle sandwich aimed at my face.  A breeze stirred my hair in the wake of my opponent’s lunge.  I stepped forward and kicked out at his knees.

_The gun in his other hand gleams in the dim light of the dingy hall._

I missed his knees and dropped to the floor, sweeping my foot in a wide arc that would have caught his ankles if he hadn’t leaped into the air just then.  Perfect timing.

_A knife in my hand.  I don’t wanna use it but, dammit, I cannot be seen!_

I blocked the roundhouse kick before it could knock me ass-over-charming-smile.  “Oh, upping the ante are we?” I growled, launching an attack of my own.

**_Crunch!_ ** _Shit.  The bastard had just about landed that blow.  As it is, he’d taken a portion of skin off my nose.  Fuck.  That’s gonna be DNA evidence._

I pulled my punches at the last moment when one connected with his diaphragm and the other, taking advantage of the reflexive, inward curl of his body, found his kidney.

“Fuck!” he hissed.

_And then a gloved hand snakes over my opponent’s shoulder and a black blade slices across his throat.  I leap back before I can get sprayed with a noticeable amount of blood.  Our flight suits are black and not particularly absorbent, but I can’t take the chance that someone will still notice.  I don’t have time to wait for the bastard to die before I destroy the evidence of his knuckles having introduced themselves to my face._

He retaliated, swinging an arm at my head.  I ducked.  He lashed out with a knee and caught me in the hip.  I tumbled to the mat and rolled with it.

_“You were taking too long,” he says by way of explanation as he cradles my face and gives the scrape-ish cut on my nose an evaluative glance._

_“The hell, babe,” I complain.  “I thought I was the impatient one.”_

_He shrugs.  Despite the risk, he doesn’t give a damn that he’d just freakin_ ’ **_abandoned_** _the chopper and come after me like a damn knight on frickin’ horseback.  Just like Cathy’d warned me he would._

_“Let’s get the hell outta here,” I mutter.  “The labs are secure.”  We **cannot** be seen._

I launched myself at him – one Shinigami Kamikaze Blitz comin’ up!

_My crewmen’s helmet and eye shield cover the souvenir on my nose._

_“If anyone asks?” Trowa prompts as we get ready to take on a cargo of drug lab grunts and mercs in handcuffs.  He nods at my nose.  At least it’d stopped bleeding._

_“That’s why you and I have a date on the sparring mat the moment we get back.”_

_Motion at the loading door draws our attention.  The first wave of perps, accompanied by Heero, are escorted in and belted down._

_“This is Chang.  Requesting air support status.  Over.”_

_Trowa radios back, “Additional units in the air.  Ten minutes out.”_

He knocked me off of his back and I found myself just about kissing the mat.  Dammit.  I wiggled a bit.  He applied more weight to my hips.  I sighed and spared a thought for how nice it would have been to spar with Heero (who would have let me keep going until I was _yea_ close to passing out from exhaustion), but he was still in debriefing.

“Are we done?” Trowa asked from above me.

I gave up.  “Yeah, pretty sure we are.”  It sure felt like we had all the bases covered.  Every bruise and scrape I’d gotten from the nameless bad guy not three hours ago could be explained away by a little stress-relief session in the gym with my copilot and husband.

He lifted himself off of me and reached down, offering a hand to help me up.  With a wince, I accepted.

Standing, I took a moment to let out a long breath, leaning my shoulder against Trowa’s... and then I realized that we had a spectator.

Hilde blinked at me from the edge of the sparring ring, her wide, blue eyes focused on my super spiffy nose job.  “Did _Tristan_ do that to your face?”

Damn!  No one was supposed to see my bandaged nose until _after_ we’d left the gym.  OK, time for Plan B.  “Um, no.  This would be the result of an unfortunate shopping cart surfing incident.”

“Shopping cart surfing?” she asked, looking like she really, really didn’t wanna know.

Ignoring my aching muscles, I assumed the position, miming the act of riding the wire basket of a cart like it was a surfboard and the parking lot speed bumps were waves for the catching.

“Oh Lord.”  She rolled her eyes.  She then rounded on Trowa and, fearlessly poking him in the chest with her index finger, demanded, “Where were you for this little joy ride?”

“I was the lookout.”  No lie.

_“What?!_  Aren’t you supposed to be talking him out of trying every single moronic idea that pops into his head?”

What would be the fun in that?

She continued, adding an especially emphatic poke, “What good are you?”

Trowa replied very solemnly, “I applied the Band-aid.”

“Very gently and with great skill,” I contributed.

“Uh-huh.”  She looked doubtful.  Addressing Trowa, she ordered, “Well, make sure he’s ready to fly by Friday.”

Well, weren’t we popular!  Everybody’s favorite flight team of Awesome squared.

“In the meantime, you two are up next for debriefing.” 

“Copy that,” Tro said.

Hilde glanced at my battered and bandaid-ed nose, rolling her eyes and shaking her head with exasperation as she retraced her steps out of the gym.

“A shopping cart surfing incident?” Trowa echoed, morbid curiosity crawling all over his tone and expression.

I snorted.  “I dunno what’s more disturbing: that I actually thought of it or that she believes I’d really do it.”

He chuckled.  “C’mon, _dude._   Let’s get this over with and then get your ass in a hot bath.”

“Only if you promise to help me make some waves,” I retorted with an eyebrow wiggle.

“It’s the least I can do.”

I grinned.  Now that I had something to look forward to, the self-satisfied smirk I was wearing was completely justifiable.  Neither of us could take the credit for breaking into the drug lab and locking down the factory before the bad dudes could blow the whole thing sky high, taking out the Preventer agents that had been fighting their way, meter by bullet-pocked meter, into the facility.  The trap that the syndicate had set – intending to draw in as many agents as possible before turning the whole place into a raging fireball – might come to light later, but no one would know why it hadn’t been triggered.  No one except the two of us.

Well, Trowa and I _could_ own up to what we’d done, but it’d get our asses put on the mail route until our contract ran out.  So, the fact that the processing and manufacturing areas had been left miraculously intact and overflowing with evidence was gonna end up being inexplicable and unexplained.  The explosive devices that would eventually be discovered would be found inert and unused.  Heero and Wufei would take credit for the busts and that was gonna eclipse our contribution.  That was just how it had to be.

That was the path we walked: ever watchful of the team that we were charged with, silently guaranteeing their safe passage and willing to do whatever we had to in order to bring them back to base without pieces missing, just so long as we remained _unseen._

As we rode the elevator upstairs, I thought about Cathy.  She’d be disappointed in me if she knew what risks Trowa took on my behalf.  Hell, she’d probably kick my ass.  Was it selfish of me to want to bring our team back with no causalities, time and time again?  Was it wrong of me to actively work for that?

“Hey,” Trowa said, calling me back to the here and now.  His gaze searched my expression.  “Don’t make me stop this elevator and ask.”

I chuckled.  “I was just thinking...”

He nodded solemnly.  “I’ll consider myself warned.  Fire when ready.”

I rolled my eyes.  “Say you and I take some personal time?”

He blinked, and then he smiled.

It was a smile meant just for me and I felt my own lips twitch upward in response until I really was smiling.  In fact, I felt a slight tug from the adhesive bandage on my nose.  Impulsively, I pointed to it and asked, “Hey, you think this is gonna leave a scar?”

His smile flickered and dimmed.  I glimpsed the flash of something fierce in his eyes just before he leaned in and, grasping my chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, kissed me quickly – daringly – on the lips.  “Not if I have anything to do with it,” he assured me thickly.

I looked into his green eyes.  “Yeah.  I know.”

I remembered the blade of the black knife and its deceptively smooth kiss along my opponent’s throat.  Trowa and I had just killed a man – he’d done it to protect me, and I’d squirmed my way into the drug lab in the first place to save the lives of our team – and nobody could ever know about it.

Except for us.

I leaned against his shoulder briefly, trusting him.

When the elevator doors opened, we resumed a professional distance from each other, but it was all for show.  Trowa and I were a unit, no matter how much distance was between us.  And we’d figure out how to handle the scars just like we’d figured out how to handle everything else: together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The “unseen” path Duo and Trowa have chosen will become increasingly important as the TooT!verse continues.


	31. Patron Saints (a TooT continuation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preventer Agent Hilde Schbeiker finds out she owes her life to divine intervention… of one variety or another.
> 
> Hilde POV. 
> 
> Takes place after “The Unseen” and sets the stage (a bit) for “Tag and Other Backyard Games”

“How do you explain this, Agent Schbeiker?”

“I wish I could, ma’am.”  There _was_ no explanation.  According to the preliminary crime scene report, our most recent assignment should have failed.  It should have failed _horribly._   No one charges into a den of organized crime without expecting to take a hit.

We’d anticipated injuries, possibly fatal ones, and had done our best to minimize the risks.  But we’d all known there _would_ be risks.  Major ones.  Risk was a part of our jobs and with twenty-six innocent lives hanging in the balance, we’d accepted that.  Being a Preventer didn’t mean saving people only when it was convenient or easy.

In this instance, being a Preventer meant bursting into a fortress to retrieve the underage teens who were about to be shipped out to places unknown to join the sex trade.  There was a lot of money in that business, and the boss of the operation was definitely going to fight us for his share of it.  We had expected resistance.  We had _not_ expected laser-guided, armor-piercing rounds.

The update from forensics confirmed the make, model, modifications, and even the number of bullets that had been fired during the raid.

Lucrezia Noin, myself, and the entire tactical team should be dead.  We should _all_ be dead.

“What explanation does Forensics give?” I asked.  My voice shook worse than my hands.

The director didn’t frown, but her voice was saturated in doubt.  “Human error.”

I laughed but there was no humor in it to speak of.  “An entire army of professional killers, armed with _these—”_   I waved the report in my increasingly sweaty hand.  “—just _missed_ with every shot?”

“Apparently.”

No.  That just wasn’t possible.  “But they had laser sights!”  The whole point of using laser-guided bullets was to eliminate human error completely!

Director Une shrugged as if it wasn’t a point of concern, but I knew it was.  “Thus far, every weapon collected at the scene has been cleared of malfunctions.”

I shook my head.  Over a dozen top-of-the-line, fresh-off-the-black-market, laser-guided New Generation Smart Glocks, all useless in the _same_ firefight.  No.  It was too unbelievable.

“If you have an alternate theory, I’d love to hear it,” the director said.

That was the problem.  “I don’t.”

“In that case, congratulations on dodging the proverbial bullet… eighty-seven times.”

I was more numb now than I had been yesterday while making my post-op report, and twice as troubled.  I didn’t believe in miracles.  I believed in thinking ahead, in never giving up, in giving the job your all plus 10% because it was going to make a difference.  Now… I didn’t know what to believe.

As I left the director’s office, I held the door open for Lucy.  I didn’t like the idea of sending her into that room alone.  We were partners.  I should have her back.

She gave my shoulder a pat in passing and I noticed her ragged fingernails.  She’d been biting them again.  “You all right?” she asked.

That was the issue at hand.  I had no idea how to answer her.  Before I could do more than blink, Une called her inside and I had to let her go on without me.

I considered waiting like Lucy had done for me, but I knew I’d just be wasting time.  I headed for the elevator, growing more and more frustrated with every step: the more we attempted to wrap this case up and deliver it to the prosecutor, the less sense it all made.  Not one of those eighty-seven death sentences had hit their target: me.  No one of them had hit _any_ target at all.  It wasn’t possible.

“Hey, Hil.  You OK?”

I jerked to a halt in the hallway.  My chin snapped up and I felt my mouth melt upward in answer to Duo’s friendly smile.  Beside him, Trowa wasn’t smiling, but he was studying me with something that looked like concern.  Just behind both of them, the elevator doors were in the middle of sliding shut.  “Hey.  You guys again, huh?  Just can’t stay away from the posh office life.”

Duo chuckled.  “Nah.  We’re only here for the free coffee.”

“And follow-up briefings?”

“That’s the excuse today,” he joked.  Then he let out a breath and shrugged.  “Don’t know what she thinks we’re gonna be able to tell her.  We were in the cockpit the whole damn time.”

I didn’t have any hints or clues to offer him.  “Well, just because you go fishing doesn’t mean there’s a big one in the lake.”

Duo stepped forward and placed his rough hand on my shoulder.  “I’m glad you’re OK, Hil.  It sounded really bad over the comm.”

“It was hell,” I agreed.  “It makes no sense that all of us are still breathing.”

“When in doubt, credit a guardian angel,” he replied with a reassuring grin.  As he moved past me, Trowa gave me a nod and then both of them were heading for the reception area outside the director’s office to wait their turn.

I called the elevator and rode it down to the investigation and tactical level.  Even when the elevator stopped and I started down the hall to my office, my stomach was still feeling like it was dropping.

_“…credit a guardian angel.”_

There was something about the way Duo had said that which made me feel uneasy.  The sensation followed me home that evening.

“Are you really all right?”

I sighed, dumping my pack on the chest of drawers by the front door as I kicked off my boots.  “I honestly don’t know, sweetheart.”  After an entire day of mulling it over, I still felt like I was on the verge of waking up only, when I did, I’d realize I was dead after all.

Warm arms went around me.  Warm breath puffed against my neck.  Warmth was good.  I’d heard that death was cold, like outer space.  If this was proof that I was still alive, I’d take it.

“I’m sorry,” I offered after a long moment of just leaning and existing.

“What for, Hilsie?”

For this—  “Can we put dinner off for an hour?  I just need a little more time to… unwind.”

“Of course.”

I was given a kiss and left to my own devices for a bit.  Not that it helped at all.  I still didn’t know which end was up, not even when I was lying in bed with my lover’s arms around me.  I couldn’t stop going over it.  Again and again and again.

The next day at work, Lucy noticed.  I’d made it a point to drop by her office to compare notes before she took the initiative and came to mine.  She was always “straightening up” my stuff and causing me to lose track of important files.  Geez.  I pitied her future children.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked as I leaned against the arm of one of the guest chairs.

“If you slept as little as I did last night, then yes.”

She lifted a hand to her mouth.  Her teeth flashed.  Another nail was destined for a ragged future.

But, just then, someone knocked on her office door.

“Enter!” she called.  Her visitors were Heero Yuy and Wufei Chang of all people.

“We heard about the op,” Heero said without preamble, closing the door behind him and his partner.

I gave him a look.  “And you’re here to congratulate us on still being among the land of the living?”

“You flew out with Armstrong and Cross?” Wufei confirmed abruptly.

I nodded.

Heero and Wufei exchanged a meaningful look.

My instincts perked up.  “Hey, what’re you not telling us?”

“Look up their past assignments,” Heero said, turning back to the door.  “That should answer your questions.”

I frowned.  “How do you know we have questions?”

“Hm,” he grunted.  “A lucky guess.”

“Tread carefully,” Wufei ordered.

And then they left.  Just like that.  I shared a look with Lucy and then I slid off the arm of the chair to wander around to the other side of her desk while she pulled up our transport team’s file.

Heero had been right: it _did_ answer a lot of questions.  It also created new ones.

How was it possible that, in the past two and a half years of operating as a flight crew, Duo and Trowa had not _once_ lost an agent?  _Everyone_ who went out with them on an assignment came back alive.  There’d been some minor injuries and two non-fatal gunshot wounds, but that was all.

But no, that wasn’t entirely true.  There was the repeating pattern of miracles following in their wake, as if the hand of God was picking up after their team and hustling them toward safety.  God or a couple of guys with unparalleled computer hacking skills, access to several communications satellites, and the guts to get the job done.

“Do you really think they could do something like this?” I asked, staring slack-jawed at some of the miracles that had evidently occurred on their watch.

Lucy leaned back in her chair and grinned.  “I’d like to think so.”

After a moment of thinking about it, I grinned back.  “Me, too.”

To my knowledge, there was no way to interfere with laser-guided weapons unless you were within range to knock the thing out of your attacker’s hands, but if anyone could find a way to do it…  Well, I wasn’t going to underestimate Duo and Trowa.  Who else could break into a hidden drug manufacturing plant and seal off the labs when Heero and Wufei’s team had gotten caught up in a prolonged standoff with the perps?  Who else could prevent an entire building from being turned to rubble and not be caught on camera doing it?

I scanned the report more carefully, my gaze catching the phrase “single casualty” and then “suspect identified as a mercenary employed by the syndicate” and finally “knife wound across the throat.”  Assassination-style.

“Oh my God,” I breathed.  If Duo and Trowa had done _that…!_

And they had.  I remembered walking in on their sparring session in the Preventer gym right after they’d returned from Heero and Wufei’s mission.  Duo had looked to be sporting fresh bruises.  At the time, I’d assumed they’d been from sparring with Trowa – not for a minute had I bought that line about shopping cart surfing! – but now that I thought about it, Duo’s wounds hadn’t been _that_ fresh.  Which meant Duo had gotten them on that mission… wrestling with a trained killer... who had been dispatched execution-style.

Duo and Trowa had left their post and gone into that drug lab and they’d gotten out alive, leaving behind no evidence and no witnesses.

What a frightfully razor-thin line they were walking.  My first instinct was to print the entire file out and slap the whole shebang on Une’s desk.  But in the next breath, I knew it wasn’t necessary.  She already knew all this and _that_ was why Lucy and I (as well as Duo and Trowa) had been called in for additional debriefing.  She knew what they were doing, but she couldn’t prove it.

I wondered just what her stance on this – unofficially – was.  I couldn’t even begin to guess, but I did know what mine was.

That evening, after I left the office, I detoured to the hangar.  I spotted Trowa easily enough; he was shelving camouflage packs of flash grenades, flares, and whatever else into the logistics garage.  Duo was bent over a crate, going over the invoice as he checked through the delivery.

“Hey,” I said, announcing myself.

“Hilde,” Trowa replied without even looking my way.  I guess he’d heard me coming.

I knew it was silly, but I couldn’t stop myself from looking for the faded mark of the bruise-and-scrape Duo’d had on the left side of his nose after that drug lab mission of Heero’s and Wufei’s.  Again, I thought of the body that had been found near the factory’s fire doors, throat slit.

Straightening from his slouch over the crate, Duo enthused, “Yo!  ‘Sup?”

“No, thanks.  I’ve already got dinner plans,” I told him with a sarcastic smile.

“Then you’re gonna be missing out!” he replied.  “It’s taco night.  _Dos cervezas, por favor.  Y d_ _ónde est_ _á el ba_ _ño?”_

I rolled my eyes and he winked.  “Beer and bathrooms.  Geez, JC, you are such a guy.”

“I’ve noticed,” Trowa concurred.

I waited until he turned around and then I held out two little jewelry boxes, one in the palm of each hand.  “From Lucy and me.”

Duo took his first and opened it.  He grinned down at the pendant inside.  “Saint Joseph,” he said, showing it to Trowa.  “The patron saint of pilots.”

I gestured with my other hand, reminding Trowa that I had one for him, too.  He plucked it up with a deft motion and lifted the lid.  Duo leaned over his shoulder and announced, “And Saint Agathius, the patron saint of soldiers.”

He looked up, a question and a warning in his eyes.

I shrugged.  “Couldn’t hurt.”

Duo glanced at his own pendant and huffed out a soft chuckle.  “Yeah.  Couldn’t hurt.”

I took a step forward and gave Duo a hug before he could beat me to it.  “Take care of yourself, buddy-boy,” I ordered him.  I stepped back and reached for Trowa’s shoulder, pressing my hand against his jacket sleeve.  “You, too, buster.”

He nodded.

I turned to go.  “Oh, and keep those on, will you?  Just in case.  There’s no saint for shopping cart surfers.  I checked.”  This I aimed at Trowa along with a wink.

His mouth twitched upward into a tiny smile even as Duo rolled his eyes.  “It’s nice to know you’ve got my back, Schbeiker.”

“I’ll be seeing you around, JC,” I promised.

“In that case, I’ll be watching my 6.”

I left the hangar, grinning.

“You seem… better,” my lover commented when I slid into my seat at the dinner table that evening.

I reached around the place settings and we clasped hands.  “I am.”

“But you also seem… worried.”

“I am,” I admitted with an apologetic smile.

A moment of contemplative silence passed between us.  And then: “It’s going to be all right, whatever it is.”

I let out a breath and nodded in agreement.  I might not believe in miracles, but I could believe in two guys who were going above and beyond the call of duty to look out for anyone who was given a seat aboard their aircraft.  Duo Maxwell and Trowa Barton, the patron saints of Preventer agents.

I could believe in that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, we still don’t know who Hilde’s significant other is. I plan to reveal their identity in “Tag and Other Backyard Games.”
> 
> Also, yes, now Heero, Wufei, Hilde, and Lucrezia have all figured out that Duo and Trowa are running their own shadow ops type thing within official Preventer missions when necessary. Yes, Une also knows that they are doing this, but since she can’t prove it, she doesn’t have to do anything about it officially.


End file.
